Born to Bite Bundle: Highland Beast, Yours For Eternity, Highland Hunger & Born to Bite
Author: Hannah Howell
Date: 2012-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Romance; Paranormal Romance
Description: New York Times bestselling author Hannah Howell, Victoria Dahl, and Heather Grothaus offer three unforgettable stories set in the Scottish highlands, where forbidden longings take over. . . "The Beast Within" by Hannah Howell Gybbon MacNachton spends his days searching for the Lost Ones--demons with the powerful MacNachton bloodline who are being hunted by those who want to destroy them. When he stumbles upon Alice Boyd, living like a wild animal in the forest, she stirs a primitive lust deep within him--a lust that can only be sated by their explosive union. . . "Laird of Midnight" by Victori
Publisher: Zebra
Rights: Copyright © 2009 by Kensington Publishing Corp.

Born to Bite Bundle:
Highland Beast,
Yours For Eternity, Highland Hunger
& Born to Bite

Hannah Howell, Erica Ridley, Diana Crosby, Michele Sinclair, Ivie Jackie

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

Table of Contents

Highland Beast

Yours for Eternity

Highland Hunge

Born to Bite

HIGHLAND BEAST

HANNAH HOWELL

HEATHER GROTHAUS

VICTORIA DAHL

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

HIGHLAND BEAST

Alice knew she would have to let him feed from her. There was no choice. Even if he was not as close to dying as she feared he was, he needed her blood to heal. Between the weakness caused by the sun and the injuries he had suffered, it would take him a very long time to heal enough to travel.

Slipping one arm beneath Gybbon’s head and lifting him up enough so that he would not choke as he fed, she placed her bleeding wrist against his mouth. For a moment his lips remained cold and still against her skin and her blood seeped down over his chin. Alice feared she was too late, that he was already beyond the ability to take what could save him. Then he grabbed hold of her arm and pressed her wrist hard against his mouth.

A heartbeat later, he sank his fangs into her skin and began to feed….

Books by Hannah Howell

ONLY FOR YOU * MY VALIANT KNIGHT

UNCONQUERED * WILD ROSES

A TASTE OF FIRE * HIGHLAND DESTINY

HIGHLAND HONOR * HIGHLAND PROMISE

A STOCKINGFUL OF JOY * HIGHLAND VOW

HIGHLAND KNIGHT * HIGHLAND HEARTS

HIGHLAND BRIDE * HIGHLAND ANGEL

HIGHLAND GROOM * HIGHLAND WARRIOR

RECKLESS * HIGHLAND CONQUEROR

HIGHLAND CHAMPION * HIGHLAND LOVER

HIGHLAND VAMPIRE * THE ETERNAL HIGHLANDER

MY IMMORTAL HIGHLANDER * CONQUEROR’S KISS

HIGHLAND BARBARIAN * BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

HIGHLAND SAVAGE * HIGHLAND THIRST

HIGHLAND WEDDING * HIGHLAND WOLF

SILVER FLAME * HIGHLAND FIRE

NATURE OF THE BEAST * HIGHLAND CAPTIVE

HIGHLAND SINNER * MY LADY CAPTOR

IF HE’S WICKED * WILD CONQUEST

IF HE’S SINFUL * KENTUCKY BRIDE

IF HE’S WILD

Books by Heather Grothaus

THE WARRIOR * THE CHAMPION

THE HIGHLANDER * TAMING THE BEAST

Books by Victoria Dahl

TO TEMPT A SCOTSMAN

A RAKE’S GUIDE TO PLEASURE

ONE WEEK AS LOVERS * A LITTLE BIT WILD

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

CONTENTS

Books by Hannah Howell

“The Beast Within”

HANNAH HOWELL

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

“The Vampire Hunter”

HEATHER GROTHAUS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

“Laird of Midnight”

VICTORIA DAHL

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Dear Readers

THE BEAST WITHIN

Hannah Howell

Chapter One

Scotland—spring, 1513

Silence descended upon the forest like a shroud. It was as if all of nature had just drawn its breath in, holding it in fearful anticipation. But of what? thought Gybbon MacNachton. He looked at his two cousins and saw that Lachann and Martyn had gone as tense as he had. They gripped the hilts of their swords just as he did.

“Hunters?” he asked as they dismounted, in a whisper so soft only a MacNachton could hear him.

Lachann opened his mouth but had no chance to reply. A cry as chilling and feral as any MacNachton could make tore through the woods. The heavy silence was shattered. Some animals echoed the fury in that cry while others revealed little caution as they scrambled to flee from whatever made the sound, filling the air with their cries of alarm.

“I believe that was one of the Hunted,” Lachann drawled. “Which way?”

Gybbon knew his cousins had a good idea of where the cry had come from; they only sought confirmation. One of the gifts he had gained from the blending of Callan and MacNachton blood was superior hearing, one even few MacNachtons could equal. A gift that could all too often be a curse, he thought idly as he concentrated. It was a struggle to push aside all the other noises crowding his ears, but he finally caught the sounds he sought. The soft but heavy breathing of hard-run horses, the sharp sound of armor, and even the clear, sleek sound of swords being unsheathed.

“Straight ahead. A short run and we will reach a clearing at the foot of the hills ye can see rising above the trees,” he replied. “There are at least six armed men. The noise the horses are making makes it difficult to be certain. And one other,” he added softly as he heard a soft, low growl. “I believe we have just found one of the Lost Ones.”

“Then we had best hurry,” said Martyn even as he secured their horses deep in the shadows of several old beeches. “I have no wish to have come so close to the prize we have sought only to bury it.”

“Agreed,” said Gybbon. “I go straight. Martyn, ye go to the right, and Lachann, ye go to the left. We halt when we sight our prey and then ye wait for my signal.”

They moved swiftly, and silently, through the trees. Gybbon was not surprised to hear the sounds of animals moving out of their way. Animals recognized predators. The beasts kept at Cambrun had to be carefully raised from birth to accept a MacNachton or a Callan. The MacNachtons’ human allies cared for the animals that were bred for the table.

The scent of blood stained the air as they drew closer to their target. Gybbon had to swiftly cage the beast that stirred within him, its dark hunger awakened by the smell. Every instinct he had told him they had found one of the Lost Ones their clan searched for. If he was wrong, however, the last thing he and his cousins needed was to approach a group of Outsiders with their MacNachton blood running hot and hungry. The whispers about their clan were already too loud. Attacking a few Outsiders who were doing no more than fighting each other with fangs bared and the bloodlust running high would only add to the rumors that got them hunted down and decried as demons.

Gybbon felt anger grow within his heart, an anger aimed at the carelessness of his ancestors. Not only had the MacNachtons of the past done little to hide their dark nature, becoming the Nightriders of people’s worst nightmares, but they had also bred outside the clan. They left behind living proof of their existence but, far worse and unforgivable, they had deserted their offspring, leaving children behind to grow up with gifts they did not understand and that, all too often, got them killed.

The moment the MacNachton laird Cathal had become aware of the problem, he had sent out as many of his men as he could. Dozens of MacNachtons were on a hunt for the ones they now all called the Lost Ones. Not only did their clan need the new blood the Lost Ones would bring to Cambrun, but the MacNachtons’ greatest enemy now hunted the Lost Ones as well. An ever-growing number of Hunters were on the trail of anyone with MacNachton blood and it had become a hard-run race to see who would find all the Lost Ones first.

As soon as the trees began to thin out, Gybbon signaled his cousins to go down on their bellies. The three of them crept along, barely rustling a single leaf, until they reached the edge of a clearing. Gybbon was idly thinking of how good they were at sneaking up on Outsiders when the clouds suddenly slid away from the full moon and he got a good look at the person facing down eight well-armed men.

They had definitely found a Lost One, was the only clear thought he had for a moment. She was small and looked as if she badly needed sustenance. She was also dressed in rags and needed a bath. Crouched as if prepared to spring at her enemy, she had her small, long-fingered hands held up, long nails that Gybbon knew could easily rip out a throat readied for attack. A snarl twisted her full mouth and exposed her fangs. One man already lay sprawled on the ground between her and the other men. Her ragged gown and pale face were spattered with the wounded man’s blood.

A man of fastidious tastes and habits, Gybbon was shocked by the abrupt, fierce attraction he felt. She was a feral creature, as unlike the women he favored as a thistle was to a rose. Even the Pureblood women of his clan had never looked this feral, this dangerous. The fact that he could not even see her eyes or face very clearly due to the tangled mess of her long, thick hair did nothing to dim the attraction suddenly knotting his innards. He felt his fangs fill his mouth and he knew it was not just because of the strong scent of blood. He wanted to sink them into the woman standing there covered in blood and mud.

Forcing aside his confusion, he signaled to his cousins. They needed to slip into the clearing at her side and her back. They also needed to show the Hunters that they faced not one, but four MacNachtons. Gybbon hoped that would be enough to cause the men to flee. Although he ached to rid the world of this pack of Hunters, a battle now could lose him the girl, and returning a Lost One to the nest was of greater importance. Women with Outsider blood were fertile and his clan was in desperate need of those. When the thought of her bearing a child for some other MacNachton nearly made him growl, he pushed all thought of the woman from his mind. He had an enemy to rout.

“Ye killed Donald!” cried a short, stocky man.

“Nay, but I will if ye take even one step closer,” said the woman, her voice clear and sweet despite her battle-ready stance.

Gybbon nearly shook his head as he used the shadows to get as close to her as possible before he was seen. He did not understand why she did not just run. Why would she face so many armed men when she could outrun them or disappear into the shadows? They had not cornered her. She still had routes of escape opened to her.

“Ye will die here, demon bitch, and we will sniff out your stinking spawn and kill him, too.”

It was hard not to curse aloud at the words “stinking spawn.” Now Gybbon knew why she did not run. Somewhere, close at hand, was a child. A child that might also have MacNachton blood. He signaled his cousins and, one by one, each of them stepped out of the shadows. Martyn moved to the woman’s right, Lachann to her left, and Gybbon stepped up behind her. He wanted to stand in front of her but he had to make sure she did not try to flee from them once the Hunters were gone. When she spun around, Gybbon smiled, revealing his fangs. It was the quickest way he knew of letting her know they were allies.

Alice Boyd stared at the man who had crept up behind her. The fact that he had been able to get so close to her without her hearing a sound stunned her. It had been a mistake to turn around, however, exposing her back to the men who had been hunting her for far too long, but she had responded to a presence at her back with blind instinct. The fact that the men now flanking her and the one behind her all had fangs did little to comfort her. Just because they appeared to be as cursed as she was did not mean they were allies.

The man behind her grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to his side. Still reeling from seeing that there were others like her, Alice did not fight his hold. She told herself that if these men sent her enemies running, at the end of the battle she would have only three men to deal with. It gave her a slightly better chance of coming out of this confrontation alive. She forced herself not to think of the fact that if they were like her, they would be a lot harder to beat or flee from than the Hunters. She could not let fear weaken her now.

For a moment all the men did was stare at each other. Alice was tempted to tell them to all cease posturing and get on with the fight. Then the man she had injured moaned, rolled onto his belly, and started to crawl toward his companions. She pushed aside the pinch of guilt and horror over the fact that she had so badly injured him. He had been trying to kill her, she reminded herself sternly.

She waited for the three men with her to do something but they only closed ranks around her. They were protecting her but she had no idea why. She did not know them. She was sure they did not know her. Even though they appeared to be like her, she had no knowledge of any kinsmen, either.

“There are only four of them,” protested the short, stocky man as two of the Hunters grabbed the wounded man and hefted him onto the back of a horse. “We should stand and fight.”

“Nay, not this time,” said a tall, muscular man as he mounted, never once taking his gaze off the woman and the men standing at her side. “Mount, Geordie. Now.”

“They will return,” said Alice the moment the last of her tormentors had disappeared into the night.

“Aye,” agreed the man still holding her wrist. “They will try to creep up on us and take us down one by one.”

“Then, mayhap, ye best hie right back to where ye came from.”

“Not without ye.”

Fear was a sharp pain in her heart but Alice fought to hide it from the men watching her so closely. “Why should I go with ye? I dinnae ken who ye are.”

“I am Gybbon MacNachton,” said the man holding her. He nodded toward the man on her left. “My cousin Lachann.” He nodded toward the other man. “My cousin Martyn. We have been searching for ye.”

MacNachton was but one of the names her tormentors had called her. It meant nothing to her. It did, however, add weight to what her instincts told her. These men were like her. Either the curse that plagued her was more widespread than she thought or they all shared a kinship. Yet, if there was a kinship, why had her mother or father never mentioned it?

Alice studied all three men before fixing her gaze on the one who still held her wrist. She beat down a surge of embarrassment, of humiliation, over being found in such a ragged state by three such handsome men. That was of no consequence. All that mattered was if she could trust them. It was not only her life that was at risk.

Her captor was achingly handsome, more so than his dark cousins, which made her feel even more ragged and filthy. She did not need her keen nose to know that he was clean. His skin and his clothes proclaimed it. He was tall, lean, and obviously strong. His face was all elegant lines and fair, unmarked skin. As close as she was to him, aided by both the bright moonlight and her own keen eyesight, she could even see the color of his eyes. They were a brilliant green and the look in them was one of wariness. Set beneath straight, dark brows and rimmed with thick, dark lashes, they were beautiful eyes, too beautiful for such a strong warrior. His long hair was so black the moonlight caused it to gleam with a slight blue sheen. Monsters should not be so handsome.

“Why have ye searched for me?” She tried to pull free of his grasp when she caught herself thinking his slightly full lips looked soft, and tempting, but he held fast to her.

“Weel, nay for ye exactly. We were sent out by our laird to find people we call the Lost Ones.”

“The Lost Ones?”

“Aye,” said the man called Lachann. “Kin born outside our lands, ones lost to us.”

Martyn nodded. “Our ancestors were nay verra good men. They raided villages and towns for miles about. They were called Nightriders. It wasnae until recently that we became aware of the fact that they left behind children, ones born of rape or seduction. First there was a man called Simon, then a lass and her wee brother running from the Hunters just as ye are, came to us.”

“Hunters,” she hissed, her fury at her tormentors rising up to choke her. “’Tis too fine a name for them.”

“Aye,” agreed Gybbon, “yet ’tis what they do. They hunt down MacNachtons.”

“I am a Boyd. Alice Boyd.”

“Ye hold MacNachton blood, lass. That makes ye one of us. As ye now ken, we have an enemy, one that wishes to see every MacNachton dead.”

“Because we are demons, cursed and damned.”

“Nay, we are but different.” He ignored the soft, derisive noise she made. “We can talk of this later. Tell me why ye faced these men, why ye didnae use the gifts I ken ye have to just run and hide.”

Gifts? Alice nearly laughed but knew her bitterness would make it a harsh, unpleasant noise. Her family had not been slaughtered because she had gifts. She had not been beaten and raped because she had some God-blessed gift. It was fear of the darkness in her that caused such tragedy. If she had gifts she would not be filthy, ragged, hungry, and huddling in caves.

Quickly looking over the three men again, she frowned. They were clean, well dressed, and did not look hungry at all. Yet they knew what she was and, after seeing their fangs, she could not dispute their claim that they were like her. Did they have some safe haven or had they escaped true suffering because they were strong, well-armed men who had banded together?

She thought over their talk of Lost Ones, of children bred by their ancestors and deserted, or ignored because the men never considered the possibility that their widely cast seed had taken root somewhere. Her mother had once told her that, years ago, Grandmere had taken a lover, a dark man who had visited her only at night. Her mother had been the result of that union and had said that she was certain that was where the darkness inside of them had come from. Once her grandmother had spoken of that lover, calling him her dark knight, her sinful Nightrider. Everything these men told her matched what little she knew or could remember. Alice was not sure that meant she should trust them, however. She had too much to protect to trust too easily.

And yet, these men obviously knew how to stay safe, warm, and well fed. She desperately wanted to stop running, stop crouching in caves like a cornered animal. Neither could she ignore the fact that she was changing, was becoming more animal than woman. Alice also knew that all she had done, all she could do, was not enough to gain what these men had.

She was facing defeat and death and she knew it. She was not the only one, either. Once she was gone, the ones she fought so hard to save would be lost as well. Alice had to admit that she was also tired, so very tired, of carrying all that weight alone.

“Lass, we mean ye nay harm,” Gybbon said quietly, knowing that she was trying to decide if she could trust them or not. “Ye are nay alone, are ye. There is a child, aye? Let us help ye. Let us take ye to your people, to Cambrun. Ye will be safe there, far safer than ye are now. Ye and the child.”

“Ah, aye, my stinking spawn.” Alice felt his hand briefly clench and saw anger tighten his handsome face. Oddly, that sign of the anger he felt over the insult to her child helped decide her course. “I have to trust in what ye say. There is no other choice for me. If these bastards hunting me dinnae succeed, hunger, cold, and exhaustion will. So, I believe ye had best follow me.”

Gybbon released her and then found that he and his cousins had to move quickly to keep pace with her. She scrambled over rocks with ease despite her unshod feet and climbed the rocky hill with a speed and agility he and his cousins were hard-pressed to match. Either she had a natural skill or she had lived like this for a long time.

When she slipped into a crevice between two huge boulders, he followed. The soft curses from his cousins told Gybbon they were finding it as tight a squeeze as he was. He stopped inside a small cave and was about to complain a little when he looked toward the small fire in the center of the cave. The sight that met his eyes trapped his petty grumblings in his throat.

Chapter Two

Four pairs of eyes stared back at Gybbon. Even as his stunned mind struggled to accept the fact that Alice Boyd was protecting not just one child, but four, the largest of the children shifted just enough to place his too-thin body between the smaller children and the adults. Gybbon studied the boy who studied him, and judged the child to be nine or ten years of age. The MacNachton mark was strong on the boy.

Two small dark-haired girls huddled behind the boy. Gybbon did not even try to guess their ages but he doubted they were long out of infancy. One small boy kept trying to get next to the oldest child only to keep being gently shoved back. All four children looked as ragged, dirty, and feral as Alice. Gybbon doubted they were all her children, however, as she did not look to be more than twenty years old and only one had the look of her.

“Be at ease, Alyn,” Alice said as she moved to crouch at the oldest boy’s side.

“Ye brought the Hunters to us,” Alyn said, his tone of voice wavering between question and accusation.

“Nay, I would ne’er do so. E’en if ye cannae believe I would die to keep ye safe, can ye doubt that I would do so for Donn, my own son? Or for wee Jayne or Norma?”

Alyn bit his lip and shook his head. “Nay. But if they arenae our enemies, who are they?”

“MacNachtons,” replied Gybbon as he and his cousins cautiously moved closer. “We are like you, and the men hunting ye hunt us as weel. ’Tis our belief that ye all have some MacNachton blood.”

“I dinnae ken what blood runs in my veins, but ’tis a curse nay matter where it comes from,” said Alyn, a very adult bitterness tainting his words.

Gybbon sat and stared at the boy from across the small fire, his gaze never wavering even when his cousins sat down flanking him. “Aye, at times it does feel like a curse, holding us firm in the shadows and causing our innards to gnaw with a dark hunger. ’Tisnae the devil’s work, however, and we are nay demons. We are but a different people. Our ancestors reveled in those differences, acting with both arrogance and cruelty. My laird’s father put a final end to that long ago. What we ne’er kenned was that while our ancestors took whate’er they wanted or needed, they also left their seed behind. I would like to say they would have cared if they had kenned they had bred children, but I am nay sure they would have. I do believe, however, that it ne’er occurred to them that their seed would take root.”

“Any mon with wit kens that if ye scatter your seed about some of it will root and grow.”

There was such anger and pain behind Alyn’s words it made Gybbon’s heart ache. “Aye, so they should. Howbeit, MacNachton seed doesnae often take root. We have clung to our home, away from others—the ones we call the Outsiders—for a verra long time. We also bred within the clan far too often. One day the laird looked about and realized that in forty years, only one full MacNachton, what we call a Pureblood, had born a child and that the only other child born at Cambrun had come from a MacNachton and an Outsider. So, ye can see why it ne’er occurred to us that ones of MacNachton blood had been born outside of our lands.” He shrugged. “If ye cannae breed at home, why should ye be able to breed away from it, aye?”

“Your clan has no bairns?” asked Alice, suddenly understanding why the men had stared at the children as if they truly were gifts from God.

“There are more now, for our laird and my father both wed Outsiders. It was my laird’s plan. He himself is born of a MacNachton and an Outsider.” Gybbon briefly flashed his fangs. “Few Outsiders can tolerate what we are. Our laird hopes to slowly breed out what makes us so feared. Although we begin to think the best we can do is lessen the differences between ourselves and the Outsiders enough to more easily move among them.”

“Why would ye want to?” grumbled Alyn.

“To survive, Alyn,” Alice whispered, easily seeing the path the MacNachton laird was walking.

“Aye,” agreed Gybbon. “We may be stronger, fiercer, and all of that, but there are far more Outsiders than there are MacNachtons and there always will be.”

“Even if ye gather all the Lost Ones.”

The fact that she had seen that reason for their search told him she had a keen wit. “Ye could rightfully cry me a liar if I said that wasnae in our minds when we started searching for any with some MacNachton blood in their veins. It wasnae what truly started the search, however. There are many reasons.”

“We have time,” she said as she sat down beside Alyn and the small boy named Donn crawled up onto her lap.

“Nay, I dinnae think we do. Those men didnae flee home and I think ye ken it.”

Alice sighed. “Aye, I ken it, but they will halt and plot for a wee while. ’Tis their way. They have a wounded mon they need to tend to.” Or bury, she thought, and felt the pinch of horror and shame. She quickly shook that away. She was fighting for her life.

“Time that we should use to flee this place.” Gybbon looked at Martyn. “Can ye fetch the horses?”

“Aye.” Martyn stood and signaled Lachann to join him. “We will bring them closer, hide them, and fetch some supplies. I think it best if we eat ere we set out for Cambrun.”

Gybbon briefly glanced at the children and nodded. “Watch your backs.” As soon as his cousins slipped away, he said, “We will travel to Cambrun as soon as we have eaten. That is all the time I dare linger here. Ye can eat food, aye?”

“Aye,” replied Alice, wondering just which MacNachtons might not be able to and hoping it was not an added curse that would come to her later in her life, “though that cursed hunger isnae silenced by it.”

“I ken it. It can be leashed, however. Can ye abide the sun?”

“A wee bit. Morning and dusk. Longer if the clouds are heavy. High noon, the heart of the day, is dangerous for all of us. And, ere ye ask, we all have those cursed fangs, all our senses are keener than most people’s, we move faster, heal faster, are stronger than most, and, if my grandmere wasnae lying about when my maman was born, dinnae age too quickly. My maman was two score and ten when she was butchered but she didnae look much older than I am now.” She smiled faintly when he just cocked one dark brow in question. “I am but two and twenty.”

“And this is your son?” he asked, nodding toward the boy seated in her lap.

“Aye, Donn is my son. He is four now and has kenned naught in his short life but running and hiding. It isnae the life I would choose for any child, but at least they all still live.”

“Your husband?”

Alice held his gaze with her own, hoping he could read in her face what she did not want to say in front of the children. “I have ne’er had one. Nay, nor a lover or a love.”

Gybbon could see the fury and grief in her eyes, eyes that appeared golden in the firelight, and knew what she did not say. Donn was a child conceived in violence and humiliation. He felt a fierce urge to find the man who had abused her and make him suffer. Gybbon told himself that was because he had always abhorred men who abused women, but a small voice in his head scoffed at his excuse. This dirty, ragged woman was having a very unsettling effect on him and he was not sure what that meant or might portend.

With their callous arrogance and willful indifference, this was the hell his ancestors had condemned their children to. Alice had said that her mother had been butchered. Gybbon did not have to ask to know why the woman had been killed. The MacNachton blood had come from the mother, had left her different in a world that treated any differences with a dangerous superstition. He did not want to think on just how many MacNachton kin had met similar fates, but it was a fact that was hard to ignore, especially when he was facing a woman and four children who had all suffered losses. It fed the urgency his clan felt, fed the strong need to collect up all the Lost Ones they could find as quickly as they could.

“The boy will be cherished at Cambrun, as will all these children,” he said when he was certain his anger would not seep into his words. “Having accepted that we have become a dying people, any child with e’en the smallest drop of MacNachton blood is considered a gift, a sign that we arenae destined to fade into the mists.”

“Mayhap we should just fade away.”

“Nay. I told ye, we arenae demons and we arenae cursed. We are but a different breed of man. Kenning what Outsiders say about us, what they do to all who are so different, is why we are searching so hard for ones such as ye are. And we arenae the only different breed of man.” He told them a little about the Callans, his mother’s clan who claimed to be descended from a Celtic shape-shifter. “Who kens what others may be out there? Ones who can hide amongst the Outsiders better than we can. We have begun a search for others as weel, for our laird feels it would make us stronger if all who are different became allies.”

“The Callans bred out what made them different? They dinnae act like cats any longer?” Alice actually considered the possibility that she was not some hellborn aberration.

“Ah, weel, nay. Not all of their differences have disappeared. We begin to think it is impossible to breed it all out, but Cathal, our laird, says we can soften the hard edges of our differences. ’Tis good enough. And, if ye and the others like ye had been made known to us, we could have helped ye hide what ye are, could have taught ye how to keep yourselves hidden amongst the crowd. By leaving ye to grow up untrained, without knowledge of who ye are, my ancestors condemned ye. It took a while, and a great deal of arguing, but even the Purebloods in the clan now see the truth of that.”

“The Purebloods didnae want to change?”

“Nay, they were reluctant to change the way we have lived for so verra long, but they have come to see that Cathal is right. The recent discovery of Lost Ones has helped change their minds.” He smiled faintly. “The fact that my mother and her sister, who married our laird, have bred easily and frequently hasnae hurt, either.”

“So now ye do have children?” asked Alyn.

“Some, but nay enough. ’Tis difficult to find wives and husbands outside of the clan,” explained Gybbon. “Especially since many would have to come and live amongst us for the safety of their mate and whatever children they might have.”

“How can ye be so certain we will be welcomed by your clan?”

“I told ye, we are a dying breed. Ye need more than two women bearing children to keep a clan alive and strong. We need new blood. And my clan cherishes children if only because we have had so few, have suffered a long time with no bairns born and ken the sorrow of barren nurseries. Our younger men, ones who have a skill for blending with Outsiders, leave us to try and find a mate and some have succeeded. That only tempts others to do the same. Not all of them return, making their lives where their mates live.”

“Another loss that weakens your clan,” said Alice.

“Aye.” Gybbon tensed when he heard the faint sound of a horse, then relaxed when he recognized the soft tread of his cousins. “My cousins return,” he said quickly when he saw that Alice and the children had all tensed with fear.

When his cousins sat down by the fire and began to pull food from a saddle-pack, Gybbon quickly took charge of it. He had once suffered hunger and knew he should not give in to the urge to feed the starving children all they wanted. He suspected it had been a very long time since any of them had known the comfort of a full belly. Too much food now would only make them ill. He gave them each a modest portion of the bread, cheese, and cold venison, plus one honey-sweetened oatcake each. Then he served the adults the same and signaled Martyn to pack the food away. At first the children tried to stuff their mouths full, but one sharp look from Alice halted that mindless greed. Gybbon began to think that Alice had once been a well-taught lady from a family of means as, once the urge to gorge had been ended, she and the children ate their food with surprising delicacy.

“How long have ye been running and hiding?” he asked Alice as she helped the smaller children drink some cider from his wineskin. Later, he thought, he would offer them some of the blood-enriched wine MacNachtons always carried with them, for they could all use the strength it would give them.

“Six years,” she replied. “I was away from home, collecting berries, when the men attacked my family. If they had not fired the stable I might weel have stumbled into their grasp. Instead, the smell of smoke caused me to approach slowly. What I saw—” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly in an effort to maintain her calm, to push back the grief that could still choke her at times. “It was clear to see that I was too late to help my family, could only die as they had, so I hid myself away. Once I was certain the men were gone, I slipped back, collected what little was left and might be of use, and then placed the bodies of my family in our ruined home. I made it their tomb.”

“How many did you lose?”

“Mother, father, grandmother, and sister.”

“Thrice curse the bastards,” muttered Lachann, then blushed faintly as he recalled that he was in the presence of a woman and children. “Forgive my harsh language.”

“Mine has often been far harsher,” Alice said, “and the ills I wish upon those murderers far bloodier.”

“Ye were caught once, though, aye?” Gybbon glanced at Donn, who was savoring his sweetened oatcake bite by little bite.

“Aye. Once. The fools may think me a demon but they also still see me as a woman, weak and easily cowed as they think all women are. I escaped. I willnae be caught alive again,” she added softly, hoping she could keep that vow despite her strong will to survive at all costs. “As I ran and hid I found first Alyn, then Jayne, and then Norma. All orphaned.”

“I wasnae orphaned,” said Alyn. “I was thrown out.”

“And thus orphaned through ignorant fear instead of the death of loved ones.” Alice reached out to pat his cheek. “We make our own family now,” she said as she handed Gybbon back his wineskin.

“Ye will soon have a verra large family,” said Gybbon and smiled. “So large ye will soon wish to get away from it now and then.”

“Will adding five more nay crowd ye all even more?”

“Nay, for Cambrun has a massive keep, above and below the ground. There is also a large village in the valley. The MacNachtons’ Outsider allies, the MacMartins, live there. The MacMartins have been our allies for hundreds of years,” he added when he saw her frown. “Their loyalty to us is steadfast.”

Alice was not sure she believed that, but she would still follow these men to Cambrun. The meal they had just eaten had swept aside the last vestiges of hesitation. Even carefully meted out as the food had been, it had still been far more than she and the children had enjoyed in a very long time.

Gybbon studied Alice and the children. He knew the Hunters they had driven away had not given up. They had dealt with this enemy enough to know the men never gave up. Taking a woman, three children of nursery age, and one underfed boy along with them was going to make the journey to Cambrun long and hazardous. If the Hunters caught up with them, the ensuing battle could easily hurt the children. There had to be a way to keep the Hunters off the trail of the children.

The Hunters were after the woman, he suddenly realized. She was the one they looked for. It was her trail they followed. They had also only referred to one child, her child. There was a good chance they did not know about the others. If they did not see the child, they would just assume that she had hidden the boy away, as she had done this time. If he wanted to ensure that the children reached Cambrun safely, he had to lead the Hunters away from them. Alice Boyd was the bait their enemies would follow. He was just not sure if she would entrust the children to anyone else.

“The children will ride to Cambrun with my cousins,” Gybbon said and was not surprised when Alice tensed and opened her mouth to argue his abrupt command. She had already done a lot to protect the children, only one of whom was her blood child. “Ye and I, Alice Boyd, will lead the Hunters away from them.” He repeated all his thoughts on the matter and was pleased when she only frowned in thought. After six years of being hunted like an animal, she obviously had the cunning needed to recognize the worthiness of his plan.

“Ye think they will follow our trail and nay try to hunt down the others?” she asked.

“I do. They hunt ye, nay the bairns. The bairns would be killed once found, nay doubt, but ’tis ye they hunt.” Gybbon heard his cousins mutter their agreement, but he kept his gaze fixed on Alice.

Alice looked at the children. They were as weary and hungry as she was. It astonished her that they had all survived as long as they had. The very differences that condemned them were obviously what gave them the strength to survive. These men offered the children the chance of a better, safer life, one where the differences that had endangered them for so long would be fully accepted. It would be nearly a sin to deny them that. All she had to do was trust the men long enough to let her children go, to hand their safety over to someone else for the first time in years.

Chapter Three

Alice watched her children ride away with Lachann and Martyn until they could no longer be seen. Everything within her, heart, soul, and mind, cried to pull them back, but she fought the urge. Each time the Hunters found her, the lives of her children were put in danger. They were all so young. If something happened to her she knew they would suffer, could even die. Alyn was a clever boy but he was only nine. He would do his best to protect the younger children if she was captured or killed, but Alice knew he would fail. And each time the men found her, her chances of escape grew ever smaller.

They were being taken to safety, she reminded herself. It was something she had done far too often to count since the moment Gybbon had announced that they had to separate. Her mind knew his plan was sound, that it gave the children the best chance to escape. Doubts came from her heart and she had to ignore them. The men were like her, like the children, and that had to be enough to warrant her trust. That, and the look of delight and wonder on the men’s faces when they had first seen the children. Holding that memory in her mind helped her still her doubts and fears.

“My cousins will guard the children with their lives,” said Gybbon as he took her by the arm and led her to their horses.

Gybbon had watched her leave-taking of the children and was astonished she had allowed them to ride away with men she did not really know. The bond between her and the children, not just her blood son, was a powerful one, forged in fear and danger. What troubled him was why she had let them go. Gybbon did not need to ask. He knew. Alice had sent the children away with his cousins because she believed she was losing her battle against the Hunters, that she was soon to die. It was an admirable thing to do but he could not allow her to hold fast to that air of martyrdom. If they were to survive the next few days, she had to believe in him, believe that she could win this fight and finally reach a safe haven with her children at her side.

“Is that nay what we are doing as weel?” she asked as she mounted the sleek, black mare he led her to.

“In many ways, aye.” Gybbon mounted his gelding Resolute, yet again pleased that they had had the foresight to bring two extra horses, for with both of them riding, it would be easier to lead the Hunters astray and stay out of their grasp. “We are the bait for the Hunters to follow, and when there are no more Hunters to plague us, we will ride to Cambrun.”

“Ye sound so confident. The odds are heavy against us.” Nudging her horse to keep pace with Gybbon’s, Alice was pleased with the mare’s obedience. It had been a long time since she had ridden a horse and it was good to know she had been given an easily controlled one.

“’Tis best to ride into battle with confidence, with a surety that ye will be victorious.”

“No one can be certain they will win when they go into battle. E’en the best plans can go awry and e’en the most skilled of warriors can err or stumble.”

“True, but thinking that, and only that, only increases the chance that such misfortunes will occur.”

Alice suspected there was some truth to his words. If one expected the worst, one often got it. It was as if fate decided the worst was what you wanted and so gave it to you. She had begun to expect only the worst and had known it was a weakness, but each day it had gotten harder and harder to fight. Hope was what she needed to remain strong. Unfortunately, after running and hiding for so long her very bones ached with weariness, she had too little hope left within her.

“Exactly what is your plan?” she asked.

“To lead the Hunters far away from my cousins and the bairns and to lessen their numbers one by one until none are left or the survivors race home to their wee cottages to cower beneath their wee beds.”

“Ye mean to kill them all.”

“At least the ones who willnae give up. That troubles ye?”

“A wee bit.”

“Why? They mean to kill ye and your child.”

“Aye,” Alice admitted, knowing that death was all that would shake most of the Hunters off her trail, for they thought they were doing God’s work. “Ye dinnae need to fear that I will forget that.”

“And one of the ones hunting ye now is Donn’s father, aye?”

“Callum, the tall one who ordered Geordie to leave. The fact that I escaped him and bred a son from his cruelty appalls him. He wants me and Donn dead, wants what he calls his shame buried and gone.” It hurt to even speak the words, to admit that her son’s father thought of him as an abomination. Some day Donn would understand that, would figure out the whole ugly truth even if she did not tell him, and she dreaded the pain it would cause her child.

“Yet ye love the bairn, love a child born of rape.”

“Rape only planted the seed. I grew and nurtured the child. He is mine. The fact that Callum can look at that small, sweet lad and see only evil that needs to be destroyed is nay something I will ever understand.”

“The fact that he can look at his own bairn, his own son, and see that is but another good reason to kill him.”

Although the chill in Gybbon’s voice made Alice shiver, she had to agree with him. One thing she had hated about being hunted was that it had forced her to kill. In the six years she had been running she had seen the life fade from the eyes of four men. It was a sight that haunted her dreams. She suspected a few of the men she had injured had died later but she had been able to shrug most thoughts of that aside. Watching death claim a man while his blood warmed her hands was not so easily ignored. Not even the reminder that those men had been trying to kill her, would have killed the children, eased the horror of what she had been forced to do to survive.

The touch of a warm hand smoothing down her arm drew her from her dark thoughts and she looked at Gybbon. The understanding in his beautiful eyes eased the grip of her tortured memories. He probably did not suffer as she did over the men he had to kill, but she suddenly knew that he did not choose to kill, did not enjoy the necessity of it.

“They hunt ye,” he said. “They hunt the children. The stain is upon their souls.”

She just nodded, not sure she believed him. Despite the occasional nightmare, she had accepted what she had done as necessary. She had killed to keep from being killed. What Gybbon planned, however, was not face-to-face fighting. He intended to strike in silence, to slip out of the shadows, kill their enemy, and move on. It was a brilliant strategy when they were so outnumbered. However, Alice was not sure she would be able to do that.

The sun had been up for over an hour before Gybbon signaled a halt. The only other stop they had made had been so that she could wash in a small, rocky burn and change her clothes. Alice had been so desperate to get clean and change her clothes, even though her clean clothes were almost as ragged as her dirty ones, that she had been able to push aside the fear of being naked anywhere within a mile of a man. Gybbon had used the time to scout for any sight of their enemy and then take a quick bath in the cold burn himself. It still astonished Alice that she had accepted his word that he would give her privacy, but, even more, that she had actually been tempted to peek at him while he bathed.

Gybbon dismounted, shaking her free of her puzzlement over why she should want to peer at a man bathing when all she had wanted to do for the last six years was stay as far away from men as possible. She quickly dismounted, caught up her mare’s reins, and followed him up a dangerously narrow rocky path. It startled her when he and his horse appeared to melt into the hillside, but as she drew nearer to where he had last stood, she saw the crevice he had slipped into. Wind-contorted trees and large stones plus a bend in the very shape of the hill had hidden the opening very well. It took a little coaxing to get her horse to pass through such a narrow opening, one that had a blind corner so that it looked as if she was trying to push the horse into a wall of stone.

Once through the passage into a wider space, Alice stood very still until her eyes accepted the loss of daylight. It happened quickly and she knew she could see in the dark far better than any person without her cursed blood. When she realized she was suddenly seeing that skill as the gift Gybbon called it, she shook her head and studied their shelter.

She stood in a somewhat spacious cave, the wood for a fire already arranged in a smooth hollow in the stone floor, and more wood neatly stacked against a wall to her right. This was obviously a MacNachton retreat, one of those places Gybbon had said his clan had found so that they could shelter from the sun when they traveled. In a strange way, the preparations this clan of his made to survive eased her fears about entrusting the children to them.

“Your clan is truly weel prepared for all things, isnae it,” she said as she led the mare to the back of the cave where Gybbon already tended to his horse.

“Aye. Unfortunately it does mean that we cannae always take the most direct route when we do travel.” Gybbon grimaced. “An inn or the hospitality of some laird’s keep isnae for us. Caves, weel-hidden shielings, e’en holes in the ground. There is even a crypt or two.”

“Better to rest among the dead than to join them.”

Gybbon laughed softly. “True enough. Tend to a fire for us, lass, and I will tend to Nightwind.”

“Nightwind. A fine name,” she murmured, giving the mare a pat before turning her attention to the building of a fire.

Alice made sure the fire would not go out the moment she turned her back on it before she collected the clothes she and Gybbon had rinsed clean in the burn. Placing the saddles close to the fire, she draped their clothes over them and hoped they would dry before the sun set. She fought down a surge of embarrassment over how poor, thin, and worn her clothes looked next to his. Six years of running and fighting for her life and the lives of four children did not give a woman time to fuss over the vanities of her appearance, she sternly reminded herself. She was alive and so were the children. That was all that mattered.

When Gybbon sat by the fire and began to carefully portion out some food, Alice quickly sat down across from him. Her stomach ached for what he put in a wooden bowl but she fought to hide her desperate need. A part of her feared becoming accustomed to such bounty only to have it disappear, just as her fine comfortable life had been brutally torn away from her six years ago.

As she ate, struggling to cling to the good manners her mother had taught her, Alice covertly studied Gybbon. The way she felt around him was a constant source of surprise. Since the night Callum had beaten and raped her, cursing her as a demon all the while, she had stayed as far away from men as she could. The repeated confrontations with Callum and his men had only hardened her resolve, driving her deeper into the wilder places. In the last two years, the only time she had approached even the most humble home was in the darkest hours of the night and then only to steal what she could so that the children could eat or stay warm. Yet she felt none of that constant, gnawing fear around Gybbon.

She felt safe. She felt accepted for all that had previously condemned her. That frightened her. For too long she had trusted no one, depended upon no one, and felt no safety no matter where she was. Alice was not sure it was wise to feel safe now.

Even worse, however, she liked looking at him. She had barely begun to feel an interest in young men when her life had been torn apart. Callum’s vicious attack had ensured that she never again felt such an interest in any man. Or so she had thought. Alice knew what stirred inside her now was definitely an interest in Gybbon, the sort a woman felt for a man she might want for her own. Everything about the man pulled hard at something deep within her, and she knew that ought to have her running away from him as fast as she could. Instead she sat there staring at him like some foolish moonstruck maiden. She prayed he did not notice. It was both a surprise and an embarrassment to her and she certainly did not want to be caught at it.

Gybbon looked at Alice and caught her scowling at him. She had cleaned up well, he thought. Yet again the firelight made her eyes appear golden. In the early morning light he had caught one good look into her eyes and found them to be a rich, warm light brown. After she had washed her hair it had appeared more golden than brown and now the firelight touched upon hints of red in its thick length. Her small oval face, now cleaned of dirt, revealed clear, pale skin. Its delicate lines had been sharpened by hunger and tragedy but even those dark shadows did not mar its beauty.

She was, he realized with an inner start, really quite lovely. He suspected a few good meals would return some womanly softness to her thin body, but he could not convince himself that she was unattractive as she was. His body certainly stirred with interest as he glanced over her body, its slight curves revealed all too clearly by her ragged gown. Gybbon tried to tell himself that it was just a result of feeling protective of her, even sympathetic, but he knew that was a lie. She was nothing like the sort of women he usually felt a lusting for, but something about her definitely drew him. Even when she looked as if she wished to hit him over the head with her bowl, he thought, suddenly amused at himself.

“Are ye now regretting sending the children away with my cousins?” he asked.

Even his deep, smooth voice stirred her long-dead interest, she thought a little crossly, but she fought to keep that irritation out of her voice. “Nay. They had to go. Ye are like us. If I cannae trust the ones who are like us, then who can I trust?”

“No one. I wish I could say otherwise, but I cannae. As the Hunters gain strength ’tis even less safe for any MacNachton to let anyone outside of the clan ken what he is. There is a risk with each new Outsider who discovers how different we are. We have been fortunate so far, but the danger is there and cannae be ignored. Unfortunately, for ones like ye and your family, the need for such caution, for such solitude, only adds to the danger ye are in.”

“Aye, true enough. It stirs questions when one keeps oneself apart from others.”

“In the end, ’tis less dangerous than mixing too freely with Outsiders or letting too many ken our secrets.” He smiled his thanks as she took his bowl to clean it out. “We need to rest now. I can abide the late-day sun so we can leave here when the sun is low in the sky.”

“And then we just ride about hoping the Hunters sniff us out?”

Gybbon shrugged as he collected their blankets and handed her one. “That and, when they creep close enough, I intend to cull their numbers whenever I can.”

Alice wrapped herself in the blanket and settled down on the stone floor. She stared through the low flames of the fire at Gybbon as he did the same. It took only a moment for her to begin to miss the children, especially the way they had all curled up against her when they had slept. Alice forced that longing aside and fixed her thoughts on Gybbon’s plan. It could work to free them of any pursuit so that they could follow the others to Cambrun and she would see her children again. It would not, however, put an end to the threat men like Callum and his little army presented to all who were like her and Gybbon.

“I can almost believe we will win this fight,” she said quietly, “but ’tis just one battle.”

“Ah, ye dinnae think that beating these men will end the hunts.”

“Nay, it willnae. And I suspicion there will be men quick to step into the hole left by any Hunter killed.”

“And why are ye so certain of that?” Gybbon felt the same but was curious as to why she thought so.

“Because whoever gathers these men makes them believe they do the will of God, that they are fighting demons and will be blessed by God for their sacrifice.”

Gybbon softly cursed. She was right and he had no argument to give her. The MacNachtons had become a crusade for the righteous. His clan had long debated the reasons they now had men hunting them and come up with many, including some quest to gain the MacNachton longevity, but Alice had spoken the truth of it all, concisely. He had no argument that would refute her. Someone was leading a crusade against the MacNachtons. This war would be long and bloody.

Chapter Four

Gybbon used his sleeve to wipe the blood from his mouth. He stared down at the man sprawled at his feet. In deference to Alice’s unease about a stealthy culling of their enemies, he had given the man a choice. Fight and die or give up his quest, run home, and live. The man had chosen to die. Alice was right. These men believed they fought evil, that they fought for good and God. Others who had taken up the cause might have a few other plans of their own, but not men like these. It almost felt wrong to kill the fools.

He cursed as he crouched down by the body to search it for anything of value. Gybbon always felt a twinge of revulsion when doing so, but he could not leave anything of worth to rot with the man or to be stolen by someone else. He and Alice needed whatever supplies they could scavenge. He regretted the fact that the man’s horse had fled, for it was clear that it had been the man’s only worthy asset.

The marks on the man’s neck revealed the way he had died, so Gybbon put the body in a shallow grave and covered the newly turned earth with leaves. It had not been his intention to feed, but the man had struck a few telling blows with his sword before he had died and Gybbon could not afford to nurse wounds for any length of time. He could not regret the strength the blood had given him either.

Two days, two men. Gybbon thought that was a good accounting. Since he doubted the man Alice had nearly gutted was part of this hunt any longer, whether dead or because he had been sent away to heal, the number of their enemies was now six. If the Hunters had not gathered any new martyrs, he thought as he mounted Resolute and started back to where he had left Alice. His count depended on the possibility that all the Hunters after Alice had been in the clearing when he had first seen her. His instincts told him they had been.

What he hoped was that once the Hunters realized how their number had dwindled, they would flee. The glint of religious fervor he had seen in the eyes of the two men he had killed weakened that hope, however. Such men were often quite prepared to die, even expected some great reward since they would die in service to their God. Gybbon was coming to understand that most of the Hunters truly believed they were on a crusade against evil, were fighting the minions of Satan. That did not bode well for the future of the MacNachtons.

Gybbon found Alice sitting in front of the shieling he had left her in. The look of relief that briefly crossed her face told him she had worried about him. He did not want to be moved by that, but he was. Even telling himself that she was just afraid she would be left alone if anything happened to him did not completely dim the warmth that look of concern brought him.

Each hour he spent in her company made his attraction to her grow stronger. She was not as feral as he had first assumed when he had seen her standing over the body of a man she had savaged. She had just been hardened by six years of fighting for her life and the lives of the children she had to care for. Beneath the rags was a woman who had both education and good manners. She also had intelligence, strength, and courage. Gybbon supposed he should not be surprised that he wanted her as badly as he did.

“We now have but six men trailing us,” he announced as he dismounted in front of her, deciding he would not hide what he had done. It had been necessary and she had to learn to accept that.

“That willnae be enough to make them cease hunting us down, will it.” She sighed, for the hard look on his handsome face was answer enough.

“Nay, and ye ken weel why. Aye, and better than we did.”

“Because they believe they do God’s work.”

He nodded. “I have seen the proof of their fervor in their eyes.”

“And these men arenae the only ones, are they.”

“Nay.” He began to unsaddle Resolute. “There is an army of them. We nibble away at it from time to time but it just gains new men to take the place of those who were lost. When we first learned of them they were few, but word spreads and the numbers grow and become better funded and better organized. We need to find the head of the beast and lop it off.”

“Ye believe there is a leader who is keeping this war alive?”

“I do, as does my laird.” He grinned briefly. “He is my uncle, too. ’Tisnae often easy for him to be both.” He sat down next to her and glanced up at the slowly lightening sky. “There is a leader, and mayhap a few close to him, who stirs the fervor in the men. Someone discovered the truth about us, or some of it, and began to gather an army. That requires coin so ’tis nay some poor crofter.”

Alice grimaced. “Nay, poor crofters are always the arrow fodder. The fact that these men dinnae hesitate to cut down women and children only proves how deeply they believe we are demons. They only wish to send all of us to hell.”

“Weel, there are a few who want something else from us. ’Tis why we didnae really think hard on the reasons so many men were joining the fight, on the religious side of it.”

“What else could they want?”

“What makes us so strong and live for so long. That is one of the things the men who lead this fight are after. It nearly cost two of my cousins their lives. Two men came close to discovering that secret, that ’tis in our blood. We only recently realized ourselves what our blood can do for Outsiders. We can only hope the men didnae tell anyone else. As far as we ken, no other MacNachton has been caught and held as my cousins were.”

“I wager that is something they dinnae tell their arrow fodder.”

Gybbon offered her his wineskin, the one filled with wine fortified with blood. Her hesitation in taking it grew less each time he offered it. It was making her stronger, however, and she knew it. Even the few small drinks she had taken over the last few days had softened the hard edges of hunger on her face and body. He knew it would have also sharpened her senses and she would need that keenness in the days ahead. There might be only six Hunters left, but they were determined men.

“Do ye think your cousins have reached Cambrun by now?” she asked as she handed back his wineskin. Alice hated the fact that she needed blood to survive and remain strong, even as she appreciated how it helped her in this fight.

“They should be there on the morrow if they have suffered no trouble,” he replied.

“The children willnae slow them down. They are weel accustomed to travel, to long hard journeys in the dead of night, and to the value of being verra quiet.”

“Aye, and isnae that just a wee bit sad. My cousins will appreciate that, however, for they will be eager to get the bairns to the safety of Cambrun. The children will be weel cared for there, Alice,” he added gently, trying to ease the worry he knew she felt.

“I think a lot of the concern I feel is borne of how much I miss them. There were times when I wondered if I was a complete lack-wit for dragging four children about with me. It shames me to admit it, but, sometimes, I even wished them gone. Aye, I would think, did I nay have enough trouble just keeping myself alive? Why carry the added weight of them on my back?”

“Ye shouldnae feel shamed. ’Twas only a passing thought, a wee one borne of a hard day or a long night of running, of hunger and exhaustion. It isnae what ye thought when your spirits were low, but what ye did, and ye kept them with ye, fed them, hid them, kept them alive.” He frowned. “Did they ne’er need any blood?”

“Aye, but we all need only a wee bit now and then. Enough so that the gnawing in our bellies doesnae grow too strong, for that brings the beast too close to the skin, doesnae it. Alyn suffers it the most.”

Gybbon frowned. “He has the strong mark of a MacNachton. I wouldnae be surprised to find out his father was a Pureblood, or near to. I dinnae like thinking any MacNachton still beds women with nay thought to the breeding of a child. Ten years past we all kenned it could happen and that being so careless was wrong. Then, too, ’tis verra possible the one who sired Alyn ne’er returned because he was killed. I will find out, but now, we had best get inside. Ye go and I will join ye as soon as I secure the horses in amongst the trees.”

Alice grabbed his saddle and moved inside the shieling. It was tiny and the roof was so low she knew Gybbon would not be able to stand fully upright. What troubled her most was that she and Gybbon would be side by side as they slept through the day. She sternly told herself not to be such a coward as she hurriedly washed up. Gybbon was not like Callum. They had been together for two days and nights and the man had barely touched her.

Yet, the few times he had, she had felt no fear, she thought as she spread a blanket on the dirt floor. What she had felt made her think that Callum had not destroyed all chance that she would ever be with a man again. Gybbon’s touches, though light and all that was gentlemanly, stirred a warmth inside her. She had even found herself wishing for a touch that was not so gentlemanly. Such thoughts did make her a little afraid, but they also intrigued and excited her.

Gybbon joined her and they sat on the blanket to share the last of their bread and cheese. Alice tried to ignore the warmth of his body when they had to sit so close together their sides touched. For the first time in years she felt a woman’s interest in a handsome man. It made her nervous, but she also savored the feeling. She could actually see a chance at the future she had dreamed of years ago, one of a man who cared for her, one who would give her children and a home.

It was a dream she had thought Callum had stolen from her. Even thinking of that elusive future made her look at Gybbon and she knew that was beyond foolish. Not only was the man well-born and rich, he had shown no interest in her beyond that of a man helping to save a kinswoman. And that was a good thing, she told herself firmly, and did not believe a word of it.

The crack of Gybbon’s head hitting the low ceiling of their shelter startled her. She had been so caught up in her own thoughts she had not even seen him move. Alice reached out as he staggered a little and fell to his knees. She grasped him by the arms to keep him from falling over completely. He was muttering some very creative curses, but Alice pretended she did not hear him. Seeing the way he kept one hand on the top of his head, Alice rose up on her knees to push his hand aside and inspect the wound he had received.

It served him right, Gybbon thought, and winced as Alice’s slender fingers moved over the part of his head that had made such hard contact with the ceiling. He had only thought of putting some distance between himself and Alice, of running from the desire he felt for her. It grew stronger with every moment he spent in her company, making it more difficult to fight and control. Now his head hurt as much as his groin, only easing the pain of the latter would at least be pleasurable.

He opened his eyes and nearly groaned aloud. The way Alice was kneeling in front of him put her plump, firm breasts far too close to his mouth. He stared at them, watching them rise and fall gently with every breath she took, and his mouth watered. Exhausted though he was after a night of hunting, sleep was suddenly the last thing he wanted. He told himself not to touch her even as he placed his hands around her small waist.

Alice slowly lowered herself until she was face-to-face with Gybbon, one hand still lightly tangled in his thick hair. He was just steadying her, she told herself, and felt strangely disappointed. The look in his eyes disputed that conclusion but she did not know enough of men to be confident of that. For all she knew, it could be anger putting that heated look in his eyes.

“There was a wee gash,” she said, “but it healed e’en as I looked at it.”

“That is because I fed tonight,” he explained and saw her quickly hide a flinch. “I gave the man a choice, lass. Flee or die. He chose to die. Since he wanted to toss his life away, I saw nay reason to waste what he could give me.”

“Strength.”

“Aye. And two blankets, a wee bit of food, and a few coins.”

“I have robbed the dead, too,” she confessed softly, trying not to stare at his tempting mouth so close to hers and failing miserably. “A wee part of me cringed but my mind kept saying that he didnae need it now and I did, the children did.”

“And that it would only be taken by someone else.”

“Aye.”

“I am going to give ye a choice now, lass. Ye can stay right where ye are and let me kiss ye, or ye can move away. Best decide quickly, as I have waited a long time.”

“Ye have only kenned me for two days.” She knew she ought to move but curiosity and temptation held her in place.

“As I said, a verra long time.”

He pressed his lips to hers. The soft warmth of them surprised Alice. She slid her hand down the back of his head until it rested upon the back of his neck. The heat of his kiss seeped through her body and she blindly pressed closer to him. When he teased her lips with the tip of his tongue it caused her lips to tingle and she gasped softly. Alice was startled when he put his tongue in her mouth. Her astonishment disappeared in a haze of heat as he stroked the inside of her mouth.

The slow caresses of his hands up and down her back and sides made Alice tremble with the strength of the desire he was stirring to life inside her. The feeling was both exhilarating and terrifying. She offered no resistance as he pushed her down onto the blanket, wrapping her arms around him to hold him close as he sprawled on top of her. The soft growl he made as the full length of their bodies pressed together aroused her more than the sweetest of flatteries.

Then she became aware of the long, hard length of his manhood rubbing against her. Alice fought to push aside the insidious advance of fear. She told herself it was not a thing to fear, that this man would never wield that part of him as a weapon, but the fear grew stronger. It chilled the heat of desire she had been enjoying and then forced her mind into the dark quagmire of terrifying memory.

Gybbon suddenly found his arms full of a terrified woman intent on doing him harm. He silently cursed himself for a fool for forgetting what Alice had suffered in the past. As quickly as he could, he moved to kneel beside her, his hands out to the side as he called her name.

“’Tis Gybbon, Alice,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could manage while his body was knotted up with unsatisfied need. “Ye are safe. I am nay Callum. I willnae hurt ye.”

“I ken it,” Alice said, taking several deep breaths as she continued to push aside the icy fear that had conquered her heart and mind. “I am sorry.” Too embarrassed to look at him, she wrapped herself in her blanket and curled on her side, facing away from him. “I had thought the scars had healed,” she whispered, her disappointment nearly choking her.

“They will heal,” he said as he wrapped himself in a blanket as well and settled down at her back. “’Tis just the first time ye have tested the strength of them.”

“Aye.”

He put his arm around her and pulled her close, pleased when she only tensed a little. “I was too quick. Next time I will go slowly.”

Alice knew she ought to firmly tell him that there would be no next time, but she just closed her eyes.

Chapter Five

“He is late,” Alice complained to Nightwind.

She paced in front of the mare that placidly nuzzled the ground looking for tasty things to chew. It was foolish to be so concerned, she told herself. Gybbon was a big, strong man, one skilled in battle. He was also far better at hunting and killing than the men he now hunted. Even though the Hunters had grown more cautious, in the last three days Gybbon had lessened their numbers to four. He was a deadly shadow at their heels.

Yet, the cursed Hunters did not give up. Alice did not understand that. When a man could lessen your numbers by half without even being seen, when the female you hunted could bring down a grown man with only her hands and teeth, why continue? Why not at least return home to plan and gather more men and weapons?

She could understand why Callum continued, for she knew he needed to remove what he saw as a grave sin and a stain upon his honor, his very soul. He had made that increasingly clear in every confrontation they had had since he had raped her. That did not, however, explain why the others continued to follow him as they watched one after another of their companions disappear into the night never to return. It was madness. Alice knew the men believed they were trying to rid the world of what they saw as a great evil, but did that mean they could not even rest now and then?

“Whate’er this fervor is that has grasped these Hunters, it robs the men of all good sense, of even their soul-deep need to survive,” she muttered, earning only a brief glance from her mare. “And I begin to think Gybbon has tumbled into the same madness.” She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled in the direction Gybbon had ridden. “The two of us together could face down and defeat our foe now. Why does Gybbon continue to do it alone? I shall tell ye why. He doesnae think I can fight despite surviving for so long without his blessed help. He probably thinks I have just been lucky or that the ones hunting us are unskilled lack-wits. I may nay be one of those mighty Purebloods but I have strength and fighting skills, ones I have learned weel over the last six years.”

Alice glanced up at the sky and cursed. Gybbon had said he would return in time for them to reach shelter before the sun peeked over the horizon. Unless he rode up in the next few minutes he would not be keeping that promise. They certainly would not reach the next place of shelter before the sun was up and shining on both of them. Even if they started right now and the shelter they needed was close by, Gybbon would still be out in the sun long enough for it to begin to leech his strength away.

“Gybbon is never late,” she said and felt a chill wiggle through her that had nothing to do with the cold mists of dawn. “’Tis true that I havenae even kenned the mon for a sennight yet, but he is always where he has said he would be exactly when he said he would be there. Especially when it concerns getting to a shelter ere the sun has risen too high in the sky. Instead I stand here alone talking to a horse. Nay, something isnae right, Nightwind.”

She clenched her fists at her side and struggled against the urge to start bellowing his name. Despite not being a Pureblood, Gybbon could not abide much sun, far less than she could. He was always intensely aware of when the sun would rise and set. He simply would not risk his life like this. Nor would he want to have her suffer from the sun in even the smallest way. Alice feared that this time Gybbon had not been as quick or as stealthy as before or, worse, he had stumbled into a trap.

That last word nearly stopped her heart beating. Just thinking the possibility that Gybbon had fallen into a trap made her tremble with fear for Gybbon. Alice could not claim that she had the sight, even if she did have the occasional dream that gave her a timely warning. What she did know was that she had very keen instincts, and every one of them was telling her that Gybbon was in grave danger. In the years she had been running and hiding she had learned to heed those instincts. They had saved her more times than she cared to count. Now she felt sure they were trying to save Gybbon with their alarums.

Grabbing Nightwind’s reins, Alice began to follow Gybbon’s trail. The man was careful not to leave enough sign of his passing for the Hunters to see, but her eyesight was far keener than their enemies’ and the blood Gybbon had been making her drink in the wine had made them even keener. She knew he would be angry with her for following him but she did not care. Far better to be lectured by him than to discover much later that if she had just done something, she might have saved his life. Alice did not want those chains of guilt dragging her down for the rest of her life.

And when they reached shelter this time, she would conquer the last of her fear, she silently vowed. It had lessened with each one of Gybbon’s kisses, with each stroke of his hand. It was past time to vanquish the last of it. The fear that something had happened to Gybbon had made one thing very clear to Alice. It was far more than lust that kept her returning to Gybbon’s arms, kept her risking the chance of recalling the horror of Callum’s attack every time she felt the hard proof of Gybbon’s desire press against her. She had no intention of allowing Gybbon to get himself killed until she had discovered just what that more was. He had started the seduction and he could damn well stay around until he finished it, she thought crossly.

Gybbon echoed every move the Hunter made as he waited for the man to strike. This man was not going to be a quick kill. The Hunter had not only refused to flee, he had been cocky in that refusal. Considering how many of the man’s companions had already died, that made no sense to Gybbon. He doubted the fool considered himself a far more skilled fighter than his dead companions, although such arrogance was a possibility. This man did not have the same look of religious fervor in his small dark eyes, either.

Bait.

The word whispered through Gybbon’s mind and he cursed. He did not want to believe he had been foolish enough to step into a trap but every instinct he had was suddenly screaming that that was exactly what he had done. This man had not been caught; he had done the catching. And if Gybbon did not break free of the trap soon, Alice would be left alone. The thought chilled him to the bone.

He had not even told her how to get to Cambrun, he suddenly thought. In his arrogance, he had assumed he would be the victor of this battle and would take her there when it was all over. Gybbon quickly pushed aside what tasted too much like fear, a fear for Alice’s safety. He could not allow himself to be distracted by concern for her. He had to worry about himself. If luck was still on his side, he could escape this trap. The fact that he was already hoping for luck to save him did not make Gybbon feel much better.

A heartbeat later he knew there would be no escape for him, that he had allowed his thoughts to distract him enough to miss someone creeping up behind him. Pain crashed through his head. Gybbon tried to turn and face whoever had struck him from behind, but staggered and fell to his knees. A second blow fell and the cascade of agony laid him out on the ground, bringing him down so swiftly that he had no chance to even put out his hands to ease his fall. His last clear thought before he was dragged into blackness was of Alice and how he had failed her.

Gybbon instinctively smothered a groan as he woke up, slowly dragging himself out of the dark he had been plunged into. The pounding in his head was so fierce his eyes hurt, felt as if they were trying to escape his skull. For a moment he wondered what was wrong with him and then the memory of two hard blows to his head seeped into his mind. The fact that his head still throbbed told him the injury done to it had been a serious one. He started to lift his hand to his aching head and froze.

He was tied down. All reluctance to open his eyes fled. Gybbon ignored the increased ache in his head as the soft light of dawn struck his eyes like a blow, and looked around. He was staked out on the ground just inside the woods surrounding a small clearing, his arms and legs tethered to four thick tree trunks. A brief tug was enough to let him know those ropes were thick and strong, the knots tight. His strength had been too badly leeched away by the injury to his head, and the others he was beginning to feel, to allow him to snap the ropes quickly. The way the four men moving toward him were watching him, he would have to break his ties very quickly to have even the smallest chance of escape. At his full strength he could have done it, and leapt into the fight before the fools even knew he had freed himself. At the moment, just the thought of leaping anywhere was more than he could bear.

The man Gybbon now knew was Callum stopped barely a foot away. A snarl rose up inside Gybbon and rumbled in his throat as he met the cold gray gaze of the one who had so badly hurt Alice. The way the three men with Callum took a slight step back would have pleased him if his attention had not been so fixed upon Callum. The beast that lived inside every MacNachton wanted this man’s blood and was enraged by the weakness that prevented him from tearing out the man’s throat.

He would not feed from him, Gybbon decided coldly, only taking enough to let the man know he had been right about some of what he had believed about the MacNachtons. Enough to make the man fear for his soul just before he died. As far as Gybbon was concerned the man’s soul was already damned for what he had done to Alice and what he yet planned to do to her and his own child. Unfortunately, he knew a man like Callum would not see what he had done or wanted to do as a crime.

“They say the sun kills demons like ye,” Callum said.

The man’s voice was rough and unusually hoarse. Gybbon wondered why he had not noticed that when the man had spoken that night Gybbon had found Alice. Fighting to see clearly despite the faint haze of pain clouding his eyes, Gybbon studied the man closely. After a good long look, he finally saw why the man’s voice was so unusual. A ragged scar marred his throat, a mark he recognized as having been made by an animal or, he almost smiled, a MacNachton. Alice had nearly killed the man. With either her teeth or the lethal claws her fingernails could become, she had tried to tear out the man’s throat. His Alice was a strong fighter, he thought with pride.

His Alice? Gybbon silently cursed. She was that and more. He wondered what twist of fate made him realize that now. It was a poor time for such a revelation. He had no time to sort through his feelings or question just why he had marked her. If nothing else it would probably only add to the pain he felt, for there was a very good chance he would never see her again. Telling himself that if she found her way to Cambrun his clan would care for her only brought him small comfort.

“They say a lot of foolish things,” he replied, not surprised when his calm, faintly derisive words caused Callum to narrow his eyes in anger. “One has to question the wit of any who would listen to such mad talk.” Gybbon hid his pain when the man kicked him in the side. “Ah, time for the gentle persuasion, is it?”

“Ye willnae be so cocky soon. Despite the shade the trees offer, the sun will soon be shining down on ye.”

“Aye. A rare sight in this land and one to enjoy the few times we are blessed to see it.”

“Mayhap that talk of the sun killing them wasnae right, Callum,” muttered a short, thick-set man. “And werenae we supposed to try to catch us one of these demons?”

“We have caught one, Duncan,” said Callum.

“I was meaning catch one to be taking back to the laird so that he can be made to talk and all. The laird badly wants one of these demons so he can look them over. Has him some questions for the beastie, aye?”

“This beastie has killed four of our men. And we will be answering a few questions by watching what does happen to demons like him once they are forced to meet the light of day, aye?”

Duncan scratched his weak chin. “I be thinking the laird has more than one question he is wanting answered.”

“Then he can hunt down and capture one of these thrice-cursed beasts himself. This one is ours. There is also one more of his ilk creeping about, isnae there. Mayhap we should take the lass to the laird. Aye, there is a thought. I suspicion the laird would like to see what a female demon is like.”

A chill rippled through Gybbon. He could not halt the memories of what had happened to his cousins Heming and Tearlach when they had been captured by Hunters from swamping his mind. Their tales of captivity had enraged every MacNachton alive and sent the icy chill of dread he felt now down many a spine. The thought of Alice enduring such tortures made his heart clench with fear for her, but he kept that fear hidden from Callum and his men. It would only please them and could even add to the danger Alice would face without him at her side. Reminding himself of how long Alice had escaped these men, even with the added burden of four children, made swallowing that fear a little easier.

“Ye have been trying to catch and hold fast to Alice for six years,” Gybbon said, “and ye have failed. Why do ye think ye can do so now?” When those words earned him another kick in his side, Gybbon had to fight even harder to hide how much pain it caused him, for he was certain he had felt his rib crack under the blow.

“Because ye are going to tell us where the bitch is.”

“Och, nay, I dinnae think so. She wasnae too pleased with your hospitality the last time ye had her as your guest.”

“She and that loathsome whelp she bred need to die, but how long it takes them to do so isnae my concern. They will be caught and I will take them to the laird.”

“Which laird do ye mean to give your son to?”

“That beast she bore isnae my son! And I am nay fool enough to give ye the laird’s name just so that ye can lay some curse upon his righteous head. Just think on this as ye die, demon. Soon your woman and her wee bastard will be in the hands of your enemy, and I think ye can guess how much she will be enjoying that mon’s hospitality.”

Gybbon watched the man walk back to the fire burning in the center of the clearing, his men shuffling along behind him. There was a confidence behind the man’s words that deeply unsettled Gybbon. Why, after six long years of chasing Alice all over Scotland, did the men believe she would soon be caught? It made no sense.

Then he almost cursed aloud, barely stopping himself from wildly fighting against his bonds as an icy panic seized his heart. He was bait. Just as they had used a lone man to draw him in and capture him, they planned to use him to draw Alice into a trap. It had been hard enough to think on how Alice would be alone, unprotected because he had foolishly stumbled into a snare. Now he added the fear that she would be taken captive. Gybbon had not thought there could be anything worse than thinking Alice could die because of his carelessness, but Callum had just shown him that there was.

He fought to smother the ugly memories of all his cousins had endured when they had been taken prisoner, but they refused to leave his mind. Only it was not Tearlach or Heming he saw in chains. It was Alice. It was Alice’s soft skin marred with bloody lash marks and bruises from repeated beatings.

Even more horrifying was the thought that, if the men who had caged his cousins had told anyone of their assumptions about the value of MacNachton blood, Alice would spend her long years in chains while her blood was used to give those monsters the strength and longevity of a MacNachton. Even if the men who held her did not have that knowledge, they would still make her life a hell on earth as they used her to try to discover every strength and weakness the MacNachtons had. And such prodding, such long study, could easily reveal that secret the MacNachtons themselves had only just fully understood and wanted no Outsider to ever know—that drinking MacNachton blood could heal, could strengthen, and could lengthen an Outsider’s life by many, many years. The secret they had hoped had died with Heming’s captors. That realization brought Gybbon’s thoughts right back to the chance that Alice could be held as a source for that blood for a very long time and he nearly bellowed out his pain and rage at the thought.

For the first time in a long time, Gybbon found himself praying. He prayed that some miracle would occur and that he would regain enough strength and luck to escape so that he could slaughter these men who thought themselves so much more blessed than he despite their plans to hand a woman and child over to ones who would torture them for years. But mostly, he prayed that Alice had the good sense to stay very far away.

Chapter Six

Sweat trickled down Alice’s spine as she inched her way closer to Gybbon. When she had first seen him tied down she had nearly charged the Hunters’ camp, blindly eager to free him and slaughter his captors. She had needed several moments to quell that urge. The good sense to know that it would be an utterly foolish thing to do had been slow to come and cool her blood.

Still shaking from the need to kill the men who had hunted her for so long, who now left Gybbon staked out to suffer a slow bleeding away of his strength and his life beneath the slowly rising sun, she had taken her bow and arrows from her saddle. The weapon was one of the few things she had rescued from her home before running for her life. Her father had made the bow to suit her small hands and taught her to hunt with it. Unable to buy, make, or steal any new arrows, she had treated each one she had like gold but she was willing to lose a few now if they finally rid her of these men and saved Gybbon.

As she continued to creep closer to Gybbon, Alice tried to plan exactly how she would free him. She knew she could take down at least one man with an arrow, possibly two, before the Hunters even knew she was there, but then they would be on her. Freeing Gybbon as much as possible had to come first. Then all she could do was hope that the threat of being taken down by an arrow would be enough to hold the Hunters back. As she held them at bay, Gybbon could finish freeing himself.

If he still had the strength to do so, she thought, glancing up at the sun. Its light was already eking through the trees to touch him, each shaft of its light slowly sucking the strength from his body. If the amount of blood she could see on his now dirty, tattered clothing was anything to judge by, he had wounds that would also steal his strength. She could tolerate a lot more sun than he could, but it was still vital to get him to some shelter as swiftly as possible. For that to happen he had to be able to ride, and that took strength. She certainly did not have the strength to drag him about for miles if he lost consciousness.

Her stomach cramped with fear as she moved the last few inches to where one of the ropes holding him down was wrapped around a tree. She kept her gaze fixed upon the Hunters as she sawed at the thick rope with her dagger. Each faint rasp of the blade against the rope made her heart skip with alarm but she did not hesitate. Even if she got only one of Gybbon’s arms free before she was discovered, that would still give them some chance to flee. She could put the dagger in his hand and hold their enemies back as he finished cutting himself loose.

“There be sun on him now, Callum, but he doesnae act like he feels any pain,” said one of the Hunters, a tall, too-thin youth with pockmarked skin. “I thought ye said they were supposed to burn.”

“That is what we will soon discover for certain,” said Callum.

Alice fought the fear that rough voice stirred inside her, a fear so deep her muscles tensed with the need to run. Instead she concentrated on the fact that his once fine, deep voice was ruined because of her. The memory of how she had escaped him gave her strength. Even so, she felt a dizzying surge of relief when the blade of her dagger finally cut through the rope, for it meant she was now a little closer to getting far away from Callum. Still keeping her gaze on the men by the fire, she began the slow, exhausting crawl toward the tree that Gybbon’s other arm was lashed to.

Gybbon looked toward the Hunters when the youngest of them spoke. The youth’s words proved that the rumor that MacNachtons caught fire in the sun’s light had not died. Although the result was wrong, the men obviously knew, or had been told, that the light of day was dangerous to the people they hunted. Gybbon had to wonder what idiocy made the men continue to track MacNachtons at night if they believed that. It could be as simple as the Hunters not knowing where their prey would hide, but Gybbon could not help but think that some of it was a simple following of the rules of war. Striking at night often gave the attacker an advantage. Since striking at MacNachtons in the full light of a sunny day could cost his clan dearly, he prayed these men and the ones sending them out to hunt remained so blindly foolish.

A faint tug on his wrist startled him but he hid his surprise. He also swallowed a sudden wave of hope. It might not be a rescue. It could just be some woodland creature testing the rope for food or nesting material. Gybbon took a slow, deep breath to restore his calm and his nose filled with a light scent he knew all too well. Alice was near. He had the wild thought that he should have left the need of bloody retribution out of his prayers.

The urge to shout at her to run was hard to beat down. At full strength he and Alice could take down all four men, but neither of them was. He suffered because of his wounds, that weakness only added to by the sun’s effect on him, and she had not yet regained the strength six years of running for her life had stolen from her. Her reluctance to feed only made her recovery take longer. If she was seen, she could be captured, and the thought of that was nearly more than he could bear.

When the pull of the rope on his wrist went abruptly lax, Gybbon struggled to remain still. He did not give in to the temptation to see where Alice was moving to next. Instead, he concentrated on how she moved without making a sound, silently slipping from shadow to shadow, and how none of their enemies appeared to be aware of her presence. To ensure that they remained ignorant, he attempted to keep their attention fixed firmly on him.

“Did ye expect me to blaze like some Hogmanay bonfire?” he asked, mockery thick behind every word.

“It fair disappoints me that ye havenae, but the sun will soon kill ye, be it slow or swift,” said Callum. “Of course, ye could save your life by telling us what we need to ken. Where are Alice and the bairn?”

Alice is probably near enough to spit on ye, he thought with grim satisfaction. “Och, nay, I willnae help ye catch her. I ken all too weel the tortures your laird and his ilk would put her through. Her and your son.”

“That whelp isnae my son!” Callum cursed and glared at Gybbon. “She tries to blame me for her bearing that demon’s spawn, but he didnae grow from my seed.”

Gybbon felt the rope around his other wrist fall limp. A heartbeat later the hilt of a dagger filled his palm. It was the hardest thing he had ever done but he resisted the urge to hurl it at Callum. He also resisted the need to move. Since he now had Alice’s dagger, he knew she was not planning to cut his legs free of their tethers. That meant she had something else planned, something he hoped would hold the Hunters back as he finished freeing himself. And something, he thought as his insides clenched with anticipation, that did not require any sacrifice from Alice. He would not allow her to trade her freedom for his.

“It was your seed, ye raping bastard,” Alice said as she leapt to her feet, her bow drawn and an arrow aimed right at Callum’s heart. It took all of her willpower not to let it fly.

Despite his weakness, Gybbon moved swiftly to cut the ropes at his ankles. Every bone and sinew inside him ached with weariness but he leapt to Alice’s side the moment he was free. One man drew his sword and stepped toward them but the man had barely completed the move when an arrow through his leg took him down. Gybbon glanced at Alice to see that she already had another arrow notched in her bow.

“Ye are admirably quick with that, lass,” he murmured.

“Thank ye,” she said. “Now what?”

“Ye mean this is where all your clever plotting ended?”

“More or less. I fear I thought it all up a wee bit quickly.”

He moved to grab his weapons that had been set down not far from where he had been staked out. One quick look toward his horse revealed that the animal was still saddled and only lightly tethered to a tangled bush. Gybbon whistled softly and Resolute easily tugged himself free. In the brief moment the horse crossed in front of Alice, another man tried to rush forward. Gybbon watched as, the moment Resolute moved past Alice, she took the man down with an arrow to the shoulder. She was good, he mused, but she was going to have to overcome her aversion to killing when dealing with men like these. They might not be holding a blade against her throat, but they were still a threat to her life.

“Keep your bow drawn, lass, and come here to me,” he said quietly as he drew his sword. “Your horse?”

“A few yards behind us,” she replied as she did as he had ordered.

“Mount Resolute. We will catch the mare as we pass it.”

It was not easy, and she had to release her guard on the men for a moment, but Alice mounted the horse. She then resumed her armed watch on the Hunters as Gybbon mounted behind her. She frowned when he caught up the reins and the animal began to back up, but not straight back. It was not until Gybbon cut free the men’s horses, slapping one on its flank with the flat of his sword and sending all the horses trotting away, that she realized what he had planned. Even as the Hunters cried out their fury, Gybbon turned Resolute in the direction she had come, and kicked him into a fast trot. Alice hastily shoved her arrow back into its quiver and slung her bow over her shoulder so that she could hang on.

When they reached Nightwind, Alice halted Gybbon’s attempt to grab the reins of her horse and keep on riding. She moved nimbly from Resolute’s back to the mare’s. They would travel faster this way, and getting to a shelter was as important as eluding their enemies. The sun would soon be high enough to cause her trouble. She did not want to even think of what it was doing to Gybbon.

He gave her no chance to ask him how he felt, however. Alice quickly nudged her horse to a pace to keep up with Gybbon as he rode through the forest at a speed that was just short of dangerous. She kept her attention fixed upon the path he led them along for over an hour, ducking low limbs and praying her horse did not stumble. The time had passed in utter silence before Alice thought to ask Gybbon if the Hunters were still on their trail. If he did not think so, they could, perhaps, slow their pace a little to one that did not offer so many chances for disaster.

When she looked at Gybbon, however, she could not fully smother a gasp of shock. There was no color left in his face and, even as she watched, he swayed in the saddle. He shook himself and sat upright again but Alice doubted he would be able to do that for much longer.

“Stop,” she ordered. “Stop right now, Gybbon MacNachton.”

Gybbon reined to a halt and looked at her, all the while fighting to remain conscious enough to get her moving again. “Why?”

“Because ye are about to fall out of your saddle. The sun has leeched away all your strength,” she said as she dismounted and stepped up beside him.

“Nay. ’Tis near. The shelter is near. We can reach it if we keep moving.”

The ease with which she pulled the reins out of his hands alarmed Alice. “Ye willnae make it any farther than the next tree if ye keep on as ye are.”

“Near enough.”

He reached for the reins only to sprawl facedown on his horse. Gybbon told himself that he just needed to rest for a moment but he knew that was a lie. He felt as if his bones had turned to water. Ordering himself to rise up, to take the reins back and get Alice to safety did not stir up even the smallest spark of strength.

“What are ye doing?” he asked as he felt something cover him.

“I am securing ye to the saddle and covering ye with blankets,” she replied, knotting the ends of a blanket beneath Resolute’s belly. “And dinnae argue with me. Ye are near to falling out of your saddle and I could ne’er get ye back in it if that happened. And I wouldnae have time to try, for I will soon be suffering as ye are if we dinnae get out of this sun. And why, when it so rarely does so, is that cursed sun so bright today?”

Gybbon did not even have the strength to sigh with relief when she finished covering him up, shielding him from the sun with their blankets. He used that respite to gather what few shreds of strength he could and told her where to go. He did not want to admit that he was no longer sure of how much farther they had to go and was pleased that she did not ask. As Resolute began to move, Gybbon prayed he had not waited too long, pushed himself too hard, or the sleep he was tumbling into could be an eternal one.

Alice was beginning to feel the dangerous effects of the sun by the time she found the shelter Gybbon had been traveling to. It was an old stone hovel, one of the ones people believed the ancients had left behind, so well shielded from view by trees and vines she had nearly missed it. She was able to rouse Gybbon just enough so that she did not have to drag him inside, but left him where he fell facedown on the dirt floor. Muttering apologies to the horses for her rushed care of them, she tossed the saddles and their packs into the shelter and then secured the animals beneath the heavy shade of the trees.

Once inside the shelter she spread a blanket over the floor and then dragged and rolled Gybbon’s body onto it. She undressed him and washed his wounds, cursing the Hunters for every bruise and cut Gybbon had suffered. Just as she was about to make certain he still breathed, and ease her growing fear for him, he opened his eyes. Alice frowned when his lips moved but she could hear little more than his breath passing through them. She leaned closer, turning her ear toward his mouth.

“Blood. Need blood.”

She sat back on her heels and stared at him, pleased that his eyes were shut again. He would not see her fear. Alice did not understand why she felt that chill at his request. Fear and dislike it though she did, she had long ago accepted the dark hunger that afflicted her, one that had come from his clan. She had let the children feed from her, seen it only as a necessity to keep them strong and healthy. Then she cursed softly as she realized what held her back. This was a man; this was Gybbon. Alice knew that letting him feed from her would be far more than an act of healing. Every instinct she had told her it would also be an intimate act.

Cautiously, and silently ridiculing herself for that caution, Alice touched his face. He was cold, so cold that grief clutched at her heart. It felt as if she touched a corpse. She placed her hand over his heart. It beat, but slowly, wearily. It would not be long before it stopped.

Alice knew she would have to let him feed from her. There was no choice. Even if he was not as close to dying as she feared he was, he needed her blood to heal. Between the weakness caused by the sun and the injuries he had suffered, it would take him a very long time to heal enough to travel. They did not have that time. One of the reasons she and Gybbon had been so successful thus far was that they had never stayed in one place for very long. She also had the strong feeling that she would grieve hard if he died. If it happened because she was too great a coward to let him take her blood, that grief would be tenfold.

Abruptly, she cursed and bit her wrist. Slipping one arm beneath Gybbon’s head and lifting him up enough so that he would not choke as he fed, she placed her bleeding wrist against his mouth. For a moment his lips remained cold and still against her skin and her blood seeped down over his chin. Alice feared she was too late, that he was already beyond the ability to take what could save him. Then he grabbed hold of her arm and pressed her wrist hard against his mouth. A heartbeat later, he sank his fangs into her skin and began to feed.

The surge of what Alice could only assume was lust flooded her body. Her breasts quickly grew heavy and the tips hardened, even began to ache in an itchy sort of way. What began to alarm Alice a little was the growing heated fullness between her thighs. With each pull of his mouth upon her wrist, she felt a faint, cramping need low in her belly. And she was getting wet down there, she thought, nearly yanking her wrist away from Gybbon. As if sensing her plan to retreat, he growled softly and held tight. Only her deep need to help him grow strong again held her in place. By the time he stopped feeding, stroked the wound on her wrist with his tongue, and promptly fell unconscious again, Alice was fighting the urge to shove her hand between her legs and stroke herself. That shocked her so much that she pulled away from Gybbon so fast she nearly fell over.

Was this lust? she wondered, staring at the closed wound on her wrist with utter fascination. Since the only time she had known a man intimately was when Callum had brutally assaulted her, Alice could not be sure. She had not even kissed a man before that horrible night. In truth, she had never kissed a man before Gybbon. Callum had not bothered with kisses. Whatever it was that she had felt, she knew it was no threat to her despite the alarm that rippled through her. Behind all the strange feelings that had just afflicted her was one she had recognized. Need.

She looked down at Gybbon and sighed. Instinct told her that need could only be fed by Gybbon MacNachton, and not with the blood that dark hunger in her sometimes demanded. If that was true, and what she had just felt was lust, she might be wise to rethink her decision to cast aside the fear Callum had scarred her with and take Gybbon as her lover. Alice was absolutely sure that Gybbon would never hurt her in body, but she could not be sure that he would never shred her heart.

Chapter Seven

A sweet-scented warmth was the first thing Gybbon was aware of as he woke up. He glanced down to discover Alice curled up beside him, one slender arm draped over his belly. Then his memories rushed into his mind and he tensed. It took him a moment to calm himself, for his sleep-dulled mind to fully grasp that memories were not a threat. Not an immediate one, at least, he thought as he stroked one hand down Alice’s long, thick hair.

Peering around, he realized she had gotten him to the shelter, although he recalled nothing of the journey after she had covered him with the blanket. Gybbon was embarrassed by the weakness that had taken him down, by his inability to save himself, but he was also proud of Alice’s courage and strength. She was his; she just did not know it yet. It would require some hard wooing but he was more than willing to work for his prize.

In the midst of an idle, pleasant dream of the future with Alice as his mate, Gybbon finally became aware of how good he felt. Too good for a man who had suffered the wounds he had and then spent too long in the sun. He should still have a few aches to deal with, yet he felt as if he could easily chase a buck to ground for their next meal.

He carefully lifted Alice’s small hand from his chest and stared at her wrist. The marks were faint, nearly fully healed, but he recognized them easily. Alice had fed him. Gybbon suddenly feared he had fed too long, left her weak, but a quick, thorough look at her eased his fear. There was color in her cheeks, her breathing was deep and even, and beneath his fingers, the pulse in her wrist was steady and strong. The food and the blood she had taken in over the last few days had done their work. Alice was not only stronger, she was strong enough to give him what he needed to heal and suffer no weakness for it.

Shifting just a little to free the arm Alice was sleeping on, Gybbon trailed his fingers up and down her spine. He touched his nose to her hair and breathed deeply of her clean scent. Then he frowned and, lifting his head slightly, took another deep breath. He grinned, experienced enough to easily recognize that faint scent in the air. It was arousal. He knew exactly what had stirred Alice’s lust as well. Allowing him to feed from her had obviously stirred her desires.

Gybbon idly ran his tongue over his lips. He could still taste her sweetness there, feel the bright glory of her blood inside him. The taste of her still lingering in his mouth was a heady one, and one he was eager to taste again.

He lightly stroked her soft cheek with his fingers. Thus far frustration was his only reward for the desire he felt for Alice, but he hoped the fact that she had let him feed from her indicated that she was finally breaking the chains of fear. When there was an attraction between a man and a woman, a sharing of blood became an extremely intimate act. The arousal that had stirred in Alice, one that still lightly perfumed the air with its tantalizing promise, should have terrified Alice. Yet here she was, curled up against him.

Gently tilting her face up to his, Gybbon brushed his lips over hers. He felt a twinge of conscience over his plan to seduce her, to use what lusty feelings the feeding had stirred within her to his advantage, but he ignored it. For Alice to completely conquer her fear about all that could happen between a man and a woman, she needed to be shown that it could be pleasurable. She needed to see that lovemaking was not painful, that violence had nothing to do with it. She needed to be shown tenderness and passion so that she could finally begin to heal from the scars of the violence she had suffered at Callum’s cruel hands. Gybbon was certain that once he and Alice had made love, she would lose the fear that ate at her. He was not arrogant or fool enough to think that all her ghosts would disappear, but he felt certain that most of them would.

Pulling her on top of him, he kissed her awake. The way she quickly roused from her sleep to return his kiss made his body rapidly harden with need. She wore only her thin linen shift, but he ached to tear it from her body. He wanted to be skin to skin with her so badly he could feel a growl of demand gathering in his throat. Weaving his fingers into her thick hair, he plunged his tongue into her mouth, craving the taste of her.

Alice gasped when Gybbon ceased kissing her and gently scraped his teeth along the side of her throat where her pulse throbbed. She was sprawled on top of his large, naked body in a wanton manner but felt no inclination to move. Her blood ran hot and all the aching need she had thought sleep had conquered now rushed back so swiftly she felt dazed by it. His manhood rose big and hard between her thighs but it stirred no fear inside her.

“I see ye are healed and strong again,” she said, shivering with delight as his lightly calloused hands stroked the back of her thighs.

“Aye.” Gybbon was not surprised when his answer sounded more like a groan than a word, for Alice was rubbing herself against his aching manhood. “I can still taste ye on my tongue. Your blood now races alongside mine.”

It surprised Alice that she could be so aroused by those words. She had done what she needed to survive over the years, but the dark hunger for blood she had been cursed with had always appalled her. Instead of disgust and shame, she found herself wanting to feel what he did, wanting to taste his blood and make it part of hers. The mere thought of that brought her fangs out. When she lightly nipped his shoulder, letting him feel the sharpness of them, his growl held such hungry pleasure she felt her womb clench with demand.

“Take your shift off, lass,” he ordered. “I need to feel your flesh against mine.”

Without hesitation, Alice sat up straddling him and yanked off her shift. He ran his hands up her rib cage and covered her breasts. When he teased her hardened nipples with his thumbs, she closed her eyes and placed her hands over his. He suddenly wrapped one strong arm around her, pulled her down closer to him, and then took the aching tip of her breast deep into his mouth. Alice cried out from the strength of the pleasure that seared through her body.

Through the haze of desire that was clouding her mind a demand made itself known. Alice realized she was wet and rubbing herself against his warm, hard length. There was an aching hollowness inside her that cried to be filled. It shocked her to admit it but she knew exactly what her body wanted. Her own body’s needs were strangling her blind fear of that part of Gybbon, and she knew she had to take that final step now.

“Inside,” she gasped. “Get inside.” She started to move off him to lie on her back but he held her in place.

“This way, love,” Gybbon said. “Ye ride me.”

“I dinnae understand.”

“Put me inside ye, lass.”

Gybbon struggled for some control over the fierce desire gripping him. He was so desperate to be inside her that even the way she fumbled as she tried to unite their bodies excited him beyond words simply because her hand was wrapped around his shaft. After only a moment, however, he moved to show her what she needed to do, placing his hand over hers to help her aim him in the right direction. The moment he began to ease inside her, he yanked her hand away and pushed deep inside. He knew he should go slowly but the way her tight heat wrapped around him seared away the last of his control. A small part of him was aware of how she began to move on him, revealing the same greed infecting him, and he gave himself over to the passion ruling them both.

Alice’s release came quickly. Gybbon felt her body clench around him as she cried out his name in an alluring mixture of delight and surprise. Then she fell against him and he growled with pleasure as she sank her teeth into his chest.

Gybbon looked down at her feeding from him and shuddered from the force of the ecstasy pouring through his body. His dark hunger grew and his fangs ached for the taste of her. Since he could not reach her neck and did not want to stop her, he grabbed her arm and brought her wrist to his mouth, sinking his fangs into her soft flesh. As the taste of her entered his mouth, she shook with another release, her heat constricting around him. He held her writhing hips steady and thrust deep inside her, once, before joining her in rapture’s fall.

Alice blinked as she realized she was still sprawled on top of Gybbon, her cheek pressed against his broad chest. As her mind cleared a little more and she recalled all that had just happened, she did not know whether to be embarrassed or to spring up and do a dance of joy. She started to lift her head and her gaze fell on his chest, upon the mark she recognized all too well even though it was already faint and growing fainter. All her joy over conquering her fear, over finding out what pleasure could be found in a man’s arms, faded away so quickly she felt chilled.

“I bit ye,” she whispered in shock as she slowly sat up. “I fed from ye.”

“Aye, that ye did.” Gybbon idly wondered when she would recall that she was as naked as he was as he savored the sight of her soft skin and full breasts. He hoped it would not be too soon. “I bit ye, too.”

Alice frowned at him. “Why do ye sound so pleased by that?”

“Because I am.” He lightly trailed his fingers over her taut stomach, enjoying the way her skin flushed beneath his touch, and thinking that even her belly hole was beautiful. He almost laughed at how besotted he was. “Lass, we may nay be Purebloods, but we are MacNachtons.”

“But I didnae need to feed. I am nay wounded. I—” She ceased talking when he pressed a finger to her lips.

“E’en people who arenae of our ilk give each other wee love bites whilst in the throes of passion. Alice, for a MacNachton who still feels the dark hunger of what we just did, the sharing of our blood only adds to the pleasure to be found in lovemaking. It can make it richer, wilder, fiercer. Aye?”

She blushed. “Aye. I think it will take me a wee while to shake free of fearing all that has made me different.”

When she felt his hand enclose her breast, she sighed with pleasure until she realized that they were both still naked. With a squeak of embarrassment, she tried to scramble off him and get her clothes, only to find herself on her back with a grinning Gybbon crouched over her. She could not stop herself from looking at him, at his big strong body. He was all lean muscles and smooth skin. Her hands itched to touch him.

“We have at least another hour ere the sun sets, Alice Boyd,” he said and kissed the tip of her nose.

“Ye want to do that again?” Even as she asked that question she felt him grow hard against her.

“Shall we try it this way? Do ye think ye are ready for that?”

“Do ye think I grew afraid because of ye being on top of me? It cannae be that simple, can it?”

“Nay, but once passion clouded your wits, I think it became that way.” Gybbon brushed his lips over hers. “The moment ye feel that old fear nudging at ye, give me a wee push and I will turn us around.”

The sun had fully set by the time Alice opened her eyes again. She blinked a few times before she could see clearly and then studied the man snoring softly with his head pillowed on her breasts. He was so handsome it made her heart ache. So, too, did the knowledge that he was not for her. Gybbon MacNachton was too fine for a shepherd’s daughter. Her mother had been from a better-bred, more prosperous family, but that mattered little to people. All the finer things her mother had brought to the family were gone, anyway. There was no land or coin or even linen Alice could bring to a marriage, even if Gybbon had any inclination to offer her such a thing. All she had to offer was her heart, and a man like Gybbon MacNachton looked for more than that when he sought out a wife.

She pushed away those thoughts, for they made her eyes sting with tears she knew she could not shed. Instead she thought on the passion she and Gybbon had shared, and would share again if only for a little while. No matter what else happened between her and Gybbon, Alice knew she would always be grateful for the healing he had brought her. She knew he had not slain all her dragons, but he had cut the chains fear had wrapped around her.

When the man she had thought was asleep suddenly pushed himself up onto his forearms and gave her a quick hard kiss, she heard herself squeak in surprise. “I thought ye were asleep.”

“I was,” he said as he forced himself to leave her arms and reached for his clothes. “But I fear we cannae rest and enjoy each other any longer. I think ’tis also time we make straight for Cambrun.”

Alice hurriedly dressed, regretting the abrupt end to her time in his arms but knowing it was necessary. “There are only two Hunters left. I didnae kill those other two men but I cannae see them continuing on with the wounds I gave them. Dinnae ye think Callum will give up now?” As she laced up her gown she turned to look at him and could tell by the expression on his face that she was not going to like his answer.

“The wounded men may weel give up but I am nay sure Callum will e’er stop.” He pulled her into his arms and lightly kissed her frowning mouth. “I think ’tis more than some crusade to rid the land of perceived demons that keeps that mon on your trail, sweet Alice.”

“He wants me and Donn dead, aye? We are living proof of what he sees as his sin and his shame.”

Gybbon nodded as he rolled up the blankets. “In his mind, ’tis all your fault that he fell from grace and ye must pay. What troubles me most is that he spoke of capturing ye and taking ye back to the mon who sent these Hunters out. I wish I had had the chance to kill him for that thought alone.”

“I would still be alive, though.”

“Ye would soon wish that ye were dead.” He put his arm around her shoulder when she paled a little at the hard fury in his voice. “Trust me in that, loving. My cousins Heming and Tearlach suffered mightily when they were held captive. Naked, caged, and chained, they were beaten, cut, and bled. Our enemies search for our weaknesses. The ones who held my cousins had a plan that, if they shared it with others, could cause the MacNachtons far more trouble than they have now.”

“What could be worse than being treated as if we are evil demons, like we are naught but beasts?”

“They decided that the secret to the MacNachtons’ strength and long lives is in their blood.” He nodded when she paled again. “Aye. Just before Heming was freed, his rescuers heard his captors talk of making a potion from his blood and, if it made them stronger, to keep him alive so that they could keep dosing themselves.”

“And they think we are evil?”

Gybbon almost grinned at her use of the word “we.” She was already thinking of herself as a MacNachton. It would make settling her at Cambrun a lot easier. He glanced at the mark on her neck, one she had not noticed yet, and felt his chest swell with pride and possession. She was his and that mark would let every MacNachton male know it. When they had the time, were no longer eluding an enemy, he would let her know it, too.

Chapter Eight

“Cowards!”

Callum stood staring at the empty campsite, his hands clenched into fists at his side. His men had deserted him. That would not make him turn back, he swore. He could not. He had to clean away the sin on his soul. As long as Alice Boyd and her bastard lived, his weakness and his shame were there for anyone to see. He could never redeem himself as long as she and her son drew breath.

He looked at the place where the MacNachton beast had been tethered, at the remains of the ropes that had held the man in place. He should have killed the demon the moment he had brought him down. Callum cursed and kicked at the dirt. Now he was one against two, but he would not run with his tail tucked between his legs like the others had.

There was no going home for him until Alice Boyd and her bastard child were dead. He could not allow that proof of his weakness, of his succumbing to temptation and breeding evil, to walk around. The stain on his honor, on his soul, had to be cleansed with the blood of the ones who had put it there.

“I will see her dead,” he vowed. “And then I will search for that bastard she bred and see it in the ground. On this I swear.”

Alice cautiously eased away from a sleeping Gybbon’s warm body and ignored the immediate chill of loss that swept over her. She was getting far too accustomed to the feel of him at her side, of sleeping wrapped in his arms. Worse, she was becoming too bewitched by the pleasure she could find there. Alice hated to think of how much it was going to hurt when he left her, when their love affair ended as such things too often did. She just hoped she had the strength and dignity not to make a fool of herself when his ardor began to cool and he looked elsewhere for his pleasure.

She sat up and looked around her, then grimaced. They slept surrounded by the dead. She was not one given to fears about ghosts but she reluctantly admitted to herself that bedding down in a crypt caused her a shiver or two. It had actually taken Gybbon a moment or two to kiss and caress away her unease and turn her full attention to the passion that burned so hot between them. Now looking at the stone coffins and effigies carved on the lids made her feel embarrassed. It seemed disrespectful to make love in such a place. She also prayed that there really were no such things as ghosts or they would have gotten an eyeful during the hours she and Gybbon had sheltered here.

She stood up and dressed. Alice suspected the sun was still up, still too much of a danger to Gybbon, but that it was probably safe enough for her to go outside. They needed food. Their supplies were almost gone and she doubted there would be much chance to stop anywhere and gain more before they got to Cambrun. A meal of rabbit or fowl would give them some strength for the rest of their journey.

As she collected her bow and arrow, she pushed aside the small voice that told her to stay where she was. They had seen no sign of the Hunters for three days. It was obvious that the men she had wounded had needed care and she was sure they would have needed at least one of the last two hale men to help them get it. Alice did not think even Callum would hunt her and Gybbon all on his own. She ignored the little whisper of caution in her mind, the one trying to remind her that Callum was not completely sane when it came to her.

Slipping out of the little church the crypt lay beneath, she looked around to be sure no one was near before hurrying into the shelter of the wood. It was yet another sunny day and she was beginning to think some mean spirit was keeping the weather so fine just to make matters more difficult for her and Gybbon. Smiling at such a foolish thought, she set her mind to getting her and Gybbon some meat.

The sun was nearly finished setting by the time Alice had caught a rabbit and prepared it for the spit. Her hunt had been quickly successful but not as quick as she had thought. She cursed herself for becoming too intent upon the hunt and not paying attention to how much time had passed. Gybbon would awaken soon, if he had not already, and he would wonder where she was. She might not be certain of the depth of what he felt for her, but she knew he would worry about her if he found her gone. Wrapping the carcass of the rabbit in a scrap of cloth, she shoved it into her quiver and hurried back toward the church, a little surprised at how far she had gone.

A faint rustle of leaves was her only warning and it came too late for her to save herself. She was just drawing her dagger from its sheath when a body slammed into her back. Alice hit the ground hard, the fall and the heavy weight on her back robbing her of the ability to breathe. She could only flail weakly as her weapons were torn from her and tossed out of her reach.

“Finally, ye demon bitch,” rasped a voice that sent chills down her spine. “Finally, I have ye. Where are your wee bastard and that devil ye have taken as your lover?”

Still struggling to regain her breath, Alice replied, “I dinnae ken who ye are talking about.”

Callum turned her onto her back, straddling her and pinning her wrists to the ground with his knees. He had obviously learned a thing or two from the last time he had captured her, she thought a little wildly. Alice felt the old fear he had bred in her start to stir, but fought it. She needed to keep her wits about her if she had any chance of surviving this confrontation. A quick glance around revealed that Callum was alone and she cursed herself for not heeding the instinct that had tried to make her stay inside the crypt with Gybbon, the one that had tried to argue her assumption that Callum would not continue the hunt on his own.

He slapped her. “Lying bitch. Ye will tell me where they are.”

“So ye can kill them? Nay, Callum. Ye will nay beat or frighten me into giving ye more innocents to slaughter as ye slaughtered my family. Even if I was fool enough to believe ye would let me live, I willnae buy my life with the blood of others.”

“Your family were demons! A foul affront to God’s eyes.”

“They were just trying to live, to raise a family. They ne’er hurt anyone.” Alice knew that trying to reason with this man was a waste of words, but it might buy her enough time to think of a way to escape. It might even buy enough time for Gybbon to come looking for her.

“Ye cannae say that about your braw lover, can ye? He has killed four of my men and he drank their blood. We found one of the bodies and ye could see the marks in the neck where he sank those fangs in and sucked out the mon’s soul along with his blood. And ye tried to kill the rest of my men.”

“Did ye expect me to stand still and let ye kill me? I fight because ye willnae leave me alone. Ye mean to kill me and my bairn. Aye, I fight as would anyone. Wanting to live hardly makes me a demon. Or Gybbon evil. And there is no soul sucking, ye great fool. Someone is telling ye a lot of lies and ye are getting your hands bloodied for naught.”

He pressed the blade of his knife against her throat. “Ye are the creations of the devil and he always makes his minions take souls. Ye have to hide in the shadows and ye feed on people like wild beasts do. There is naught ye can say to change that or what it makes ye. Now tell me where he is.”

“Nay.”

She bit back a cry of pain when he coldly thrust his knife into her shoulder. Breathing deeply to try and push aside the agony as he pulled the knife free, she looked up into his cold eyes. Too many wounds like that and she would never regain enough strength to fight him.

“I ken ye and your ilk have a lot of strength,” he said as he tore the shoulder of her gown aside to stare at the wound he had delivered. “And ye heal fast, dinnae ye. But ye still bleed and, with enough wounds, with enough of your blood spilled into the dirt, ye will die. Then what will happen to your wee bastard?”

“He will live, for he is where ye will never reach him.”

“Nay, he is close. Ye would ne’er let him leave ye, nay after dragging him about with ye for years. And e’en if ye have tucked him somewhere ye wouldnae leave your braw lover, would ye. Nay, a whore cannae last long without a mon between her thighs. Weel, I willnae weaken this time. I willnae let ye take my seed and corrupt it into the devil’s weapon.”

“Oh, ’tis all my fault ye are a raping, brutish swine, is it? Is that how ye free yourself of any guilt for what ye did?”

“Ye were bred by the devil to tempt a mon but I am wiser now.”

“Ye are certainly madder now,” she muttered and she tried to buck him off her, furious at her failure to move him even a little.

“Where is your lover?”

“Here, ye mad bastard.”

Callum was yanked off her and seemed to fly through the air. Alice stared up at Gybbon, but he gave her just one furious glare before turning his attention to Callum. The fury in Gybbon was so strong and fierce, Alice was surprised it was not lighting up the woods with its heat. She scrambled up on her knees and, afraid that she would faint if she stood up, crawled backward until she was out of the way of the fight she knew was to come.

It surprised her when Callum got to his feet with no sign that being tossed through the air had injured him. She had to wonder if madness gave him strength. The man drew his sword and faced Gybbon looking as if he actually thought he had a chance to win this fight. Gybbon had also drawn his sword and just stood there, obviously wanting for Callum to make the first move.

“Ye willnae take my soul, demon,” Callum said.

“I wouldnae want the foul thing,” replied Gybbon.

“Ye and your ilk are doomed, ye ken. We will hunt ye down and slaughter ye until there isnae a one of ye left, mon, woman, or bairn.”

“I ken it. ’Tis why I will feel no sorrow over killing ye, e’en if ye are a pitiful fool. Of course, after what ye did to Alice, I do feel a wee bit inclined to make your death as slow and painful as I can.”

“She is a whore, a tool of the devil sent to tempt a righteous mon into sin,” Callum yelled.

“It isnae wise to anger me, Callum. Ye make that wee inclination I just mentioned become stronger. Now, do ye fight or do ye mean to keep trying to talk me to death? Ah, but wait, mayhap I should offer ye the same chance to survive as ye offered me. Tell me the name of the laird who sent ye after Alice and I will give ye a chance to flee.”

Alice noticed that Gybbon did not actually say he would allow Callum to live. The battle began so abruptly that the first clash of the swords startled her. Callum proved he was strong and skilled with a sword, but she could see that Gybbon was even more so. It only took her a moment to see that Gybbon was teasing the man, allowing Callum to think he actually had some chance to win. She supposed she ought to be appalled by that cruelty but Callum had tormented her for too long, had too much blood on his hands, for her to care.

“When ye are dead, I will take your whore to my laird,” Callum said. “He will show her how the righteous deal with evil.”

The way Gybbon suddenly moved, knocking Callum’s sword from his hand and grabbing the man by the throat, told Alice that Callum’s taunt had broken the last shred of control Gybbon had. Remembering what Gybbon had told her of all that had been done to his cousins, she was not really surprised. As she rubbed her hand over her healing wound, she watched Gybbon slam Callum up against a tree. The Callum who had raped her and viciously beaten her was gone now. In his place was a white-faced, trembling man who could see his death in Gybbon’s eyes.

“Ye are a fool, Callum,” Gybbon said softly. “If ye hadnae raped Alice, hadnae sought her death and denied your own child, I might feel some sympathy for ye. Pity, even. Ye have been led to your death by the lies of others, ones too cowardly to come and face us themselves. Ere ye die, I will tell ye one thing about the men ye so blindly follow, tell ye why they keep trying to capture one of us. They think we have the secret to immortality. They dinnae care about demons or sin or God, they just want to live longer.”

Gybbon could tell by the look in Callum’s eyes that he believed that, suddenly knew at the moment of his death that he had been used. Not wanting the taste of the man in his mouth, Gybbon simply cut his throat and let his body fall to the ground. He knew he would not be haunted by this man’s face.

He turned to see Alice getting to her feet and hurriedly cleaned his dagger on Callum’s shirt. Sheathing it, he went to stand in front of her. Part of him wanted to pull her close and reassure himself that she was alive while another part wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled for scaring him half to death. His heart had not ceased pounding with fear from the moment he had woken up alone until he had taken Callum off her and seen that she was still alive. The wound Callum had given her was already healed and he felt a little more of the tight fear for her ease.

“Ye never should have come out alone,” he said.

“I ken it, but all I could think of was that we needed some food.” She grimaced. “I had the brief thought that Callum might come hunting me on his own, but shrugged it aside. Odd thing is, I didnae even hear him until he was already leaping toward my back. Lost in my own thoughts of needing to get back to ye, I suspicion. It certainly wasnae worth the rabbit I caught.”

“Nay, but, if it hasnae been ruined during your fight, we might as weel cook and eat it.”

It was hard to lecture someone when they so openly admitted to making a mistake, Gybbon thought with a sigh. He put his arm around her and led her back to the church. They would have a meal and then start on their way to Cambrun. The last of the Hunters now lay in the dirt and would not be found until morning. There was a chance they might actually be able to enjoy some of the journey ahead of them.

He had learned one thing from the fright she had given him. He could call what he felt for her lust, possession, need, and whatever other word he could think of, but it did not change the facts. He loved her. Somehow, in the days they had been running from the Hunters, he had given her his heart. The fear he had felt when he had found her gone had been all-consuming. In his mind’s eyes, he had seen his future without her and it had been cold and bleak.

It explained why he had marked her as his mate so quickly. Instinct had ruled. Something within him, something beyond his ken, had recognized her as his mate. His heart had tried to tell him that she was more but he, in his manly ignorance, had consistently misnamed that more. Gybbon wanted to tell her what he felt, what she meant to him, but decided he would wait until they reached Cambrun. They might not have Hunters trailing them anymore, but the journey would still not be so easy that he could include wooing the heart of his mate along the way.

Gybbon also, reluctantly, admitted that he was not sure about how she felt. She had not noticed the mating mark on her neck and probably would not know what it was if she did. Her passion was sweet and hot, and considering the abuse she had suffered and the scars she had carried, the fact that she felt such passion for him was no small thing. He just could not accept that as a sign that she loved him. He needed something more before he bared his heart to her; he was just not sure what that more was.

As they cooked and ate the rabbit, he told her about Cambrun and its people. Gybbon wanted her to feel as if she knew the place and the people before they rode through Cambrun’s gates. When they reached his home, he would have to speak to her about the future, however. His clan would see the mating mark on her neck and he could not be sure that no one would mention it. Before someone else told Alice that she was mated to him, marked as his for life, he knew he had to say something. He just prayed he could cough up the right words before they reached his home.

Chapter Nine

Cambrun rose up out of the mists so suddenly that Alice almost gasped. One look was all it took for her to see the strength of the keep. It was huge, dark, and would certainly look threatening to an enemy. Alice suspected it could make grown men shiver with awe and fear when they saw it. She saw it as a haven and nearly wept with the realization that she and the children could finally just live without constantly worrying about where their enemies would appear next or even where their next meal might come from.

“’Tis so verra big,” she whispered.

“Aye,” Gybbon agreed and, seeing no fear in her eyes, only a sort of dazed wonder, he smiled. “And nay easy to get to, either.”

“Nay. I began to think ye were just leading me to another cave and then suddenly the mists parted, and there it was. Your ancestors chose weel.”

“Aye, and the need of this place has ne’er been stronger.”

As they neared the gates, he tried to think of how to say she wore his mark on her neck, but the words still would not come. He had wooed her as best he could during the last five days but he found he had no confidence when it came to guessing how she felt about him. Not knowing if he was about to throw his heart at the feet of a woman who only desired him had shown him that he could succumb to cowardice. He would pay for that soon, he thought, as they rode through the gates and his kinsmen rushed to greet him.

The large number of very handsome men at Cambrun astonished Alice. She dismounted and huddled close to Gybbon, a little intimidated by them all, as well as the beautiful women who slowly began to join the welcoming crowd. They smiled and greeted her with warmth but all she could think of was that she could never hold a man like Gybbon when he was accustomed to such beauty.

“Maman!”

That clear, high child’s voice was sweet music to Alice’s ears. She looked around and saw Donn rushing toward her. When he leapt into her open arms, she nearly cried from the strength of the joy that swept through her. A heartbeat later the other children were by her side, hugging her skirts and all talking at once.

All Alice could see through her tear-clouded eyes was how healthy and clean they looked. They wore warm clothing and looked as if they had never known the lack of a meal. But what touched her heart the most was that they were all smiling, all happy and eager to tell her all they had been doing, even solemn little Alyn.

After that everything moved so swiftly, she was dazed by it all. It was not until she was bathed, dressed in a warm blue gown, and having her hair brushed dry by the laird’s wife Bridget that Alice felt she could at least speak sensibly. She looked at the woman who did not look any older than Gybbon even though Alice knew she had to be as old as her own mother had been, perhaps even older.

“M’lady, I ken from all Gybbon told me that ye dinnae have MacNachton blood. Yet ye dinnae look any older than I.” Alice hoped she was not saying the wrong thing but curiosity forced her to press on. “So, ’tis true that MacNachton blood is what makes us strong and gives us a long life? And that can be given to others through our blood?”

“Aye, and ’tis a secret we pray daily no Outsider will discover,” said Bridget.

Alice shivered with horror at the thought. “I think I shall join in those prayers. If one could be certain it would be fairly shared and our lives nay put in danger, then ’twould be a gift we could share, but that would ne’er happen, I fear.”

“I ne’er looked at it in that way, but aye, it would be wondrous if it could be used to do good, but aye, that would never happen and we would all be in danger if the secret got out. Howbeit, now that ye are here and ye and Gybbon are mated, ye need nay fear for your safety. Weel, nay as much as ye have had to.”

“Um, Gybbon and I arenae married, m’lady.”

“Weel, mayhap not by the laws of the land or church, but we can sort that out in time. Ye are mated, though. Ye bear his mark and a MacNachton doesnae mark anyone but his mate.”

“His mark?”

“Aye. Havenae ye seen it?” Bridget held Alice’s hair to the side and touched the mark on her neck. “Look in the looking glass. Right there. See it?”

“Aye, ’tis a bite.” She could not completely subdue a blush as she thought of what she and Gybbon had been doing when he had bitten her. Several times. “’Tis odd that it hasnae healed and faded away as the others did.”

“Ah, he hasnae told ye.”

“Told me what?”

“Nay, I willnae be the one. Ye had best speak to the great fool and sort this out yourselves.” Bridget put the brush down. “In truth, I believe I shall fetch my nephew and send him here to take care of this right now.” She paused at the door. “And, Alice, we all thank ye for sending the children to us, for trusting us to care for them.”

Before Alice could say anything, the laird’s wife was gone. Shrugging her shoulders, she pulled her hair back and stared at the mark on her neck. It should have disappeared. Gybbon had fed off her more than once yet there was only the one mark. It was faint but it was clear to see what it was. Neither was it sore, so she knew it had healed all it was going to.

Mates, Bridget had said. A mating mark. The thought of that sent a heated shiver through her body as she wanted it to be true, wanted to be marked and claimed by Gybbon. Yet, if he had done that, why had he not told her?

The answers that cropped up in Alice’s mind robbed her of all pleasure she felt. It had been a mistake. Gybbon had not meant to do it. Or he had done it but did not want it to be true.

Gybbon rushed into the room and then came to a quick halt. Alice was staring at the mark on her neck. The look she turned on him was not one of joyous welcome and he sighed. Shutting the door behind him, he cautiously approached her. His aunt had seared his ears with her scolding and he deserved it. He should have swallowed his foolish cowardice and just told Alice, offered her all he had to offer and hoped he did not get his heart stomped on.

“She called this a mating mark,” Alice said, not encouraged by the guilty look on his face. “She thinks we are mated.”

“We are. That marks ye as mine.”

“If ye marked me, why didnae ye tell me? Or ask me if I e’en wanted to be yours?”

Alice wanted to be his more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She would not let that lead her into a marriage, or mating, that did not have any more to hold it together than lust and possession. She wanted what her parents had. They had loved each other. She loved Gybbon and wanted him to love her back. Until she was sure he did, she was not going to be claimed no matter how many marks he put on her.

“I was surprised when I realized I had done it, done it the verra first time we made love.” He knelt before her and took her hands in his. “I then thought, weel, there it is, ’tis fate and we will sort it all out when we arenae busy fighting for our lives.”

“Yet ye still didnae tell me and ye have had days where we werenae fighting for our lives.”

“I ken it but I found that I can be a coward.”

“If ye dinnae want to tell me the truth, then dinnae, but dinnae say such nonsense.”

He could not help it, he grinned. “I thank ye for being so certain of my courage that ye think I could never cower from anything. Ah, but I can, my sweet Alice. I called what we shared everything but what it should have been called. Passion.” He brushed his lips across hers, taking strength in the fact that she did not pull away. “Possession.” He kissed the mark on her neck.

Alice did not know whether to be disgusted with herself or afraid when those two little kisses and the warm look in his beautiful green eyes was enough to make her desire him naked and in her arms. “What should it be called, then?”

“Love.”

Gybbon was not sure what he should think when she gaped at him. Just as he began to feel uneasy and was going to demand she say something, a tear rolled down her cheek. His stomach clenched with alarm.

“Alice?” He brushed the tear away with his thumb only to have another follow it. “Why do ye cry? Is it so appalling to ken that I love ye?” He grunted when she hurled herself into his arms so forcefully he fell backward onto the floor, still clutching her in his arms.

“I so hoped ye might come to love me,” she said, her words muffled because she had her face pressed into his chest. “I love ye so much that I was willing to accept less if I could just stay with ye, but to ken ye love me, too, is nearly too much.”

“Ye never said ye loved me.”

Gybbon was shaking with the relief he felt. She returned his love; she was his mate in every way. He knew of only one way to celebrate such a miracle and began to undo her gown.

“Of course I didnae. I didnae want to make ye stay with me out of pity, or even worse.”

“What could be worse?” He tossed her gown aside and started to unlace her shift.

“That ye would be so burdened and embarrassed that ye would send me away.”

He picked her up and carried her to the bed. As he started to shed his clothes he looked at her sprawled out on the heavy coverlet, her shift unlaced and falling open, and felt everything that was male in him roar its need for her. The moment the last of his clothes were tossed aside he hurriedly pulled the rest of hers off.

“Gybbon?”

“I think I have loved ye from the beginning. ’Tis why I marked ye.” He sprawled in her arms and began to kiss a circle around her breasts. “I accepted it but didnae think much on it except to be pleased that fate chose a woman who could make my blood burn. Then”—he teased her nipples into hard points with his tongue—“when I was held captive I realized it was more, more than passion and possession.” He began to kiss his way down her smooth midriff. “When ye were attacked by Callum, when I woke up to find ye gone, that was when I accepted that the more was love. And now that I have had the woman I love tell me that she loves me, too, there is only one thing I want to do almost more than breathing.”

Alice was trembling with the need to have him inside her but she said, “Weel, your aunt said there will be a fine meal set out within the hour.”

Her words ended on a gasp of shock as he kissed her. Right there between her legs. She was so stunned by the intimacy that she could not move. By the time her mind cleared of shock enough for her to speak, passion had roared in to clear every coherent thought from her mind. Alice threaded her hands through his hair and gave herself over to the pleasure he gave her until she could not bear it any longer.

“Gybbon,” she cried out, tugging on his hair until he began to kiss his way back up to her breasts. “I need ye to be one with me.”

“Aye, lass, always.”

She cried out again when he thrust himself deep inside her. Ecstasy swept over her as his fangs sank into her neck. When he placed his wrist against her mouth, she did not hesitate, but cupped his hand in hers and stroked it as she gently fed from him. The moment the spicy taste of him hit her tongue, all clear thought fled her mind and she sank into the fierce passion only he could make her feel.

Feeling as limp as if he had been in the sun too long, Gybbon rolled off Alice and pulled her into his arms. She was as limp as he felt and he found the strength to grin with male pride. She was his, mind, heart, and soul. He had no words for how complete, how blessed that made him feel, but somehow he would do his best, for the rest of their long lives, to make her know just how necessary she was to him.

“We will be married as soon as my mother and aunt can arrange it,” he said when he finally had the strength to speak.

“Can ye get a priest up here?” she asked, idly wondering if she would have the strength to get dressed in time to go have something to eat.

“Aye, one of our kinsmen. He can abide a fair lot of time in the sun and took a place within the church.” He kissed the top of her head. “I hope we have just made a bairn.”

“Weel, even though we already have four, so do I.”

“Ah, my mother found Alyn’s kinsmen. I fear his father was killed even as he was traveling back to Alyn’s mother. The boy does have several aunts and uncles, however, as weel as a grandmother. My mother says they are all madly in love with the lad even now. She is working to see if she can find who ye and the others may be related to.”

Alice raised herself up on her forearms and kissed him. “I dinnae ken how I can be so blessed. I also dinnae ken how I can be thinking of food right now, but I am.”

Gybbon laughed and helped her sit up. They dressed, each fighting the urge to toss aside the clothes and return to bed. Their stomachs won that battle and Gybbon was soon leading her into the great hall.

Her belly full, Alice sipped her wine and looked around at all the MacNachtons. Alyn sat with his newfound family and she could see how their delight in him was easing all that anger and bitterness he had held for most of his young life. Even though Jayne and Norma did not yet know who amongst the crowd of dark, handsome people they might be related to, they were being so showered with love and attention she doubted it would matter if they ever found out. The fact that they were females who would grow up to be the mates of some MacNachton male undoubtedly added to their worth, but Alice could see that the joy the clan felt in all the children had no ties to it. Even Donn, already seen as Gybbon’s son since he was mated to the child’s mother, was being cosseted and feted. Alice knew she was going to have to do her best to make sure the children were not spoiled.

She knew she was basking a little in the acceptance of the clan. The shyness and uneasiness she had felt as Gybbon had presented her to his clan had fled quickly. It was hard to keep tears of joy at bay as she realized that she and the children had come home. Grief pinched her for a moment as she wished her family could have known this joy, but she shook it aside. She knew they would be happy for her and the children and that had to be enough.

The laird stood up and everyone went silent. Gybbon took her hand in his and flashed a smile at her. Alice stared at Gybbon’s uncle, thought of how he would also remain so handsome for years and years and almost grinned back at him, but the laird began to speak.

“We are blessed tonight,” he said, and paused to smile at Alice and each of the children. “We have brought five of the Lost Ones home. The number of fledglings returned to the nest will surely grow. And, since my nephew has had the good sense to mate himself with this fine brave lass who kept these children safe until they could come home, we will soon be celebrating a wedding as weel.”

Everyone cheered as Alice blushed so hotly she was amazed her cheeks did not catch on fire. Gybbon laughed and kissed her cheek but it did little to ease the heat there. It was several minutes after everyone had returned to their talk and their food, or tankards of enriched wine, before Alice calmed down.

“All right now, love?” Gybbon asked, a teasing note in his voice.

“I was just a wee bit unsettled by how everyone was cheering,” she murmured.

“Ye are a heroine to them, love. Aye,” he said when she shook her head. “As my uncle says, ye kept those children alive. That is no small thing. And everyone is overjoyed to have so many Lost Ones brought home.”

“And I am home now, arenae I.”

“Aye, love, ye are. That is what is being celebrated and ’tis a worthy thing to celebrate. Of course,” he murmured close to her ear, “I am eager to return to our bed so that I may celebrate in a manner more to my liking.”

“Ah.” She felt the desire he could so effortlessly stir in her begin to rise. “I thought ye had celebrated it quite thoroughly already.”

“Och, nay. Having ye as mine can ne’er be celebrated enough.”

He sounded so cocky, and looked it, that Alice had to smile. She also felt a strong inclination to wipe that arrogant smirk off his handsome face. “Gybbon,” she whispered in his ear, “ye do recall that, er, kiss ye gave me a wee while ago, aye?”

“Oh, aye, and I recall how sweet ye tasted as weel.”

“Tell me, oh great lover of mine, do ye think I would find ye as sweet to taste?”

He choked on his wine. Alice was still laughing about that when he grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of the hall. She doubted the joy that filled her would fade anytime soon. She had spent six years in hell, running, hiding, and fighting to stay alive, but now she was home, home with a man who loved her and a people who accepted her because she was truly one of them. Alice realized that she had been lost and she thanked God that the man who was dragging her to their bedchamber as fast as he could was the one to find her.

THE VAMPIRE HUNTER

Heather Grothaus

For my family

Chapter One

October 1, 1104
The Leamhan Forest of the Scottish Highlands

“Like that, do you?” Beatrix whispered into the stranger’s ear as he moaned and bucked against her body. She had pinned him against the rear wall behind the White Wolf Inn—foolishly close to the patrons reveling just steps inside the kitchen door, perhaps—but the added danger was exhilarating. And although his stealthy appearance had interrupted her countless nightly chores as the inn’s sole proprietor, she could not pass up the opportunity he offered.

She thrust against him again and her blood rushed in her veins like liquid moonlight when he gave a choked cry.

“That’s right—take it,” Beatrix gasped. “Take it, you bastard.”

She felt sudden wetness soaking through her long apron and into the front of her gown and knew a moment’s rue at the telltale stain that would be left behind. But concerns for the condition of her gown whirled away as she felt the cold heat of the stranger’s lips skitter desperately along the side of her neck.

“Doona…dare,” Beatrix growled and, throwing herself upon him with all her strength, finished him.

He fell against her fully and Beatrix stepped away from the wall, letting the man’s body tumble into the muddy dooryard behind the inn, near the now-splintered slop bucket she had come outside to empty. She stood over him, gasping.

A bright bar of moonlight divided by the roof peak above fell across his unnaturally pale and frozen face, setting free a single starburst from a pointed fang only just glimpsed through slack, gray lips as his head came to its final rest in the wet filth. The startling strip of light showed a slice of his torn and dirtied clothes, his ashen and decimated skin, his cratered chest ornamented with—

“Ah, dammit,” Beatrix muttered, realizing her loss. She stepped to the corpse and, placing one foot on his rapidly sinking chest, grasped the springy fan of her short wooden fork with both hands and yanked it free. A hissing sound chased the fork’s release. She staggered backward and looked at her ruined utensil—the black blood was already soaked into the wood.

“Third one this week,” she lamented and then pitched the fork in the direction of the refuse heap.

Her eyes found the body once more, now sizzling away into shimmery dust, the high-pitched squeal of a soulless void being squicked away from the earth causing Beatrix to wince. Before the corpse could vanish completely, she spat on him.

Beatrix Levenach took her time scanning the black wall of trees just beyond the inn’s back door. She could detect no movement in the thick dark—at least, not of any creature not properly alive—nor was there a return of the ominous prickle that warned her of impending attack. Save for the highland wind on its whistling journey through the elms, carrying a cumbersome winter on its back, the wood was still.

For now.

The night seemed colder after her kill, but perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades and breasts as she fumbled with the strings of her apron and whisked it over her head. Beatrix wadded it into a ball and tossed it to the same fate as her muck fork, and then turned into the moonlight so as to appraise the damage to her gown while walking to the rain barrel at the corner of the inn.

Nae so bad, she thought. A streak of black here, a splotch there. She could disguise the freshness of the stains tonight with a good dollop of her rich, dark stew—Eternal Mother knew she ended each night wearing enough of the stuff, any matter—but her skirt would forever bear the marks of tonight’s kill. She reached the barrel and plunged her arms into her turned-up sleeves, scrubbing doggedly at the cold, sticky black blood.

“Frocking vampires,” she muttered as her skin burned from both the icy water and the thought of the muck that contaminated her. She sniffed. It happened every time—this delayed release of…not fear, exactly. When faced with the undead she never flinched, never hesitated—she let her hatred for the unnatural beings and her sense of honor lead her into battle with a fearless vengeance. Only when the kill was made and the threat no more did the uncharacteristic tears creep in, the trembling seize her.

Beatrix gripped the rim of the barrel with both dripping hands, her reddened arms stiff, her head hanging down for a moment. Then she turned up her eyes to the ripe, white moon and took a deep breath.

You are Levenach, she heard her father say once more, only now that he was dead, the words came from her memory instead of his smiling mouth. Protector. Guardian of the Leamhnaigh, of the forest…of all the highlands.

A splintering crash sounded through the open rear door of the inn, but Beatrix did not flinch. Yet another one of her clay pitchers meeting its empty end against the hearth stones. Likely a retaliatory act by one of the innocent Leamhnaigh—her shoulders hitched in a soundless chuckle—she was sworn to protect, in a pique at not receiving more ale straightaway.

Beatrix straightened from the barrel and swiped at her eyes so that she could look upon the moon clearly one last time before returning to the common room and the score or so of forest folk impatient to be tended to. The people who whispered about her, who drank her ale and ate her stew while watching her with suspicious eyes. Who grudgingly paid their dues to her in meager rations of supplies—adhering to the centuries-old tradition of supporting the Levenach even as they muttered about her black and wicked ways.

Beatrix the witch.

Bring us all to ruin and damnation.

Nae, she didn’t want to go back into the White Wolf Inn, but she would.

Because she was Levenach. And she was the last.

After dropping the bar on the door following the departure of the last, straggling patrons, Beatrix felt as though she could slide to the floor and fall asleep that instant. But she only allowed herself to rest her forehead against the splintery wood and sigh. Her muscles ached miserably with fatigue and her eyelids felt lined with sand. Tomorrow was the Christian Sabbath, and then she could rest all the day.

But she could not escape into sleep just yet. Although she boarded no travelers, and she had already destroyed one vampire this evening—ensuring that the rest of the demonic pack would likely keep their distance from the inn and townsfolk for mayhap a day or two—her mundane duties were not complete. After another deep breath, she pushed away from the door and turned to face the common room, surveying the damage.

The tables were shoved out of rank, sticky-wet with the leavings of drink and food; mugs and wooden bowls lay strewn over tables and floor like giant, misshapen acorns shaken loose from a tree in a gale. Overturned stools tangled legs obscenely with each other. She’d not bothered to sweep up the shards of broken pitcher earlier—not wishing to expose her upturned backside to a roomful of drunken folk—and so the pieces still waited patiently for her on the hearth stones in the weary glow of the fading coals. The air was already stale with fermented grain and smoke, and for the thousandth time, Beatrix wished she could do the washing up with the door and windows thrown wide to the cold night air. But then, she might as well hang a shingle over her lintel: LONE WITCH IN RESIDENCE—VAMPIRES ENTER HERE.

She lit several fat candles and then set about her chores with grim purpose, wishing them done, wishing she had someone to talk with and pass the dirty hour, wishing she was her great-grandmother, who, Beatrix had been told, could charm the furniture to dance and the old shake broom to herd the dirt with only a glance of her sharp green eyes.

The room set to rights at last, Beatrix straightened from her bucket with a groan and tossed her rag into the scummy gray water. The broom, which had not so much as twitched on its own during her efforts even though she had glared heavily at it several times, leaned against a table and ignored her. A sweaty string of red hair fell into her eyes and she blew it upward. Her feet dragged as she crossed to the hearth to bank the coals and then circuited the room, blowing out each candle in turn, save the last, which she took in hand and carried with her through the door to the inn’s kitchen.

There was little to do in this back room—Beatrix set the iron pot containing the congealed remains of stew on the floor with a heavy clunk and scrape and then tipped it onto its side. A white and then a black shape swirled out of the shadows draping the wall shelves and leapt silently to the floor at the telltale sounds of the meal being served, and the two cats attended their supper with their usual aloofness.

The work bench wiped clean and the mugs and bowls left soaking, Beatrix picked up the fat yellow candle once more and walked to the small, woven mat covering a far corner of the kitchen floor. She bent and pulled the stiff rug aside with a huff and then grasped the metal pull ring set in the heavy wooden trapdoor and pulled it wide.

A cool, minerally smelling breeze sighed through the quiet black square, and Beatrix took a deep breath. She thought of her stained and dirtied gown for a moment, but then let the worry go. It was nearing dawn already, and she could take no time to make herself more presentable. She smoothed her hair back behind her ears, wiped her cheeks and forehead high on her sleeve.

The steps were old, steep and narrow, but did not spring or creak under her feet as she made her careful way into the cellar, the candle glow acting like a queer, reverse sunrise on the stone walls, dropping flickering light like a curtain. The very roots of her hair tingled as she landed on the cellar floor.

“Teine,” she called into the cold, quiet room.

Tall, standing iron candelabras immediately emerged from the darkness of each of the four corners of the cellar as their seven candles sparked to life.

Beatrix set her own, crude light on the bottom riser and walked to the center of the room, where a massive, polished black slab comprised the largest portion of the floor, resting like a gem on a setting of dull gray. The points of light from the candelabras glinted off the hard surface like a mirror, and in an instant, so did Beatrix’s own image. She let her mind clear, becoming lost in the glossy black for a moment, before raising her arms away from her sides.

“Fosgail.”

As the command left her lips, a hairline crack appeared in the heretofore solid rock at her feet, and the slab began to slide apart in two halves with barely a whisper. In the widening seam was a black unlike any polished jet stone, darker than the depths of the deepest loch, colder than winter’s thick ice at midnight.

Beatrix reveled in the moment, as she had ever since she’d first been allowed to visit the hidden, magical Levenach well as a young child. Here she could at last believe she was what legend reported: a witch of the mighty and ancient Levenach clan. A woman with powerful blood in her veins, strong magic in her heart. A warrior against evil, a protector of the highlands and of the innocent peoples who dwelt in the sheltering arms of the wood. Here, she could oft-times see the people who had shared her blood, her home, and who had now been called on to the Beyond.

Here were her only friends, her only strengths, her only comfort—that of the dead, and their cryptic promises.

Beatrix’s gaze was soft, and now in the wavering black water colors began to swirl into brightness. A man with white hair and short, neat beard.

“Hello, Honey Bea.”

“Hello, Da,” Beatrix whispered. “I’m missing you.”

“And I am for certain missing you, lass,” her father assured her.

“’Twas a wearisome night, this one,” Beatrix offered.

Her father only nodded. “But still he comes.”

Beatrix shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about that tonight—she wanted only a conversation with her father. Someone to comfort her. “I canna do this any longer, Da. I’m so tired.”

“You can do this. You must. He comes, and he will save the Leamhnaigh.”

“I doona want him to come, and I doona care about the Leamhnaigh,” Beatrix insisted in a shaky voice. “I’m lonesome for company that doesna think me the devil.”

The smile was gone from her father’s face now, and his tone was grave. “It was sworn, Beatrix.”

Even though her voice was still quiet, little more than a whisper, her tone matched the desperate tears now rolling down her cheeks. “’Tis nae fair, Da! I’m all alone and the folk have turned from me since you’ve gone on. They grow more convinced each day that ’tis I committing the slaughter.”

“But still he comes, and you will wait,” her father insisted. “You are—”

“Levenach. I ken,” Beatrix sniffed. “But what good Levenach am I? I command naught beyond some simple candles and a goodly sized rock! I canna so much as charm water to boil!”

“You are a strong witch, Beatrix, but aye, ’tis true that your powers grow less obvious—”

“Less obvious?”

“But ’tis only for your protection. With no other Levenach to stand with you, your power would make you a target. It is how it has been for one hundred years. As our family has diminished in numbers, some of our powers became hidden. They will return when the most evil hour is at hand, and when you are matched with a strength equal to your own.”

“Of what use is a witch with nae power?” Beatrix said, her voice growing petulant now. “’Tis like a man with nae pecker.”

“Beatrix!” Her father roared with laughter.

“Well?” Beatrix challenged. “’Tis what I am—Beatrix Levenach, the eunuch witch.”

“You have all the powers you need for now,” her father said, still chuckling. “You can come to the well to scry, and the most important thing—you can hunt and kill vampires better than any Levenach that has ever been told in our history. You will be the resurrection of our clan.”

“The folk will likely see me hanged for a witch. Ironic, as ’tis what I am and yet I canna do anything!”

“Are you still holding to your tale of betrothal?”

“Aye, but ’tis wearing thin. They keep asking of my intended, and I keep forgetting what it is I’ve already told them.”

“It will be over and done with soon enough,” her father promised. “He comes—look. Godspeed, Honey Bea.”

“Da, nay,” Bea pleaded as her father’s image began to ripple apart in the water. She didn’t want him to go, to have his comfort replaced by the tired old image of the white beast roaming through field and forest. She’d seen it countless times and still it meant naught to her.

But even as she lamented it, a blur of white began to coalesce on the rippling black, and Beatrix knew it would be the four-legged creature for which the Levenach inn had been named—the white wolf. Perhaps drinking at a stream, perhaps lounging in some woodland glade or loping down a narrow path, but the same cryptic symbol that had long ago lost any significance or interest for Beatrix the Downtrodden, Beatrix the Alone, Beatrix the Eunuch Witch.

She stared down into the fluttering image as it cleared and stilled. Beatrix’s frown deepened.

It was indeed the white wolf.

But this time, the animal was sitting on a chair at a table, in a common room not unlike the one above her head, and he was holding a mug of ale in one paw.

Chapter Two

October 1, 1104
Edinburgh

“So you’ve come to learn of the bloodsuckers, have you?”

Alder picked up his mug of ale carefully, deliberately, as he regarded the fat, dirtied man sitting across from him. He nodded slightly in answer and then took a sip, his eyes never leaving the sleazy excuse for a mortal.

The man chuckled, his rounded belly shuddering under his frayed and filthy tunic. The shirt had likely been quite fine at one time, and Alder wondered briefly what had happened to the nobleman from whom it had been stolen. The whoremonger leaned over his ponderous abdomen toward Alder, as if readying to impart a great secret, and the rush of movement caused a stirring of the man’s foul odor—strong spirits and cologne and weeks-old perspiration mixed with other bodily secretions.

“Well, you’ve come to the right man.” The whoremonger winked and then settled back in his groaning chair to finger one of the long gold chains around his neck. “What are you called, my fellow Englishman?”

Alder hesitated only briefly. It mattered not that the louse knew his given name—no one alive today would recognize it.

“Alder the White,” he said, realizing a faint stab of melancholy. That moniker had once held such power. Did that man still exist?

“Alder de White, eh? A fittin’ name, I’d reckon!” The man roared laughter at his own attempt at wit and his eyes flicked over Alder’s features, obviously scrutinizing his white-blond hair and pale skin.

Alder let his lips curl slightly, to keep the man at ease and talking.

“Well, Alder de White, I will be most glad to share the secrets of the bloodthirsty killers, right after I quench me own thirst.” His head swiveled and he bellowed at a passing woman. “Whore! Drink!”

A young woman, clothed only in an underdress that was much too small for her, bore a tray to the table Alder shared with her disgusting master. Alder could clearly see that she was naked under the worn linen. Her nipples, flattened against the straining material, and the dark V of pubic hair advertised her occupation more than the shortened hem that revealed most of her calves above short leather boots. Her black hair piled in knots atop her crown nearly matched the color of the shadows under her hard eyes and the fading bruises on her arms and one cheek.

She leaned low over the table as she filled the whoremonger’s mug, giving Alder a deliberate view of her breasts. Alder’s keen sight easily caught the ghostly impressions of fingertip-sized bruises on the white globes of skin.

“You fancy her?” the whoremonger simpered. “She’s me own bit at the moment, but for the right count of coin I’d share her with a good friend for the eve.” The man winked again. “She’ll suck, too.”

As if on cue, the woman turned fully toward Alder and, with no change in her expression, pulled down the bodice of her underdress, popping her breasts free as if for Alder’s approval.

“Perhaps,” Alder said, looking only into the woman’s eyes. She met his gaze for a moment before frowning slightly, as if being stirred from a deep sleep.

Put away your tray. Clothe yourself. Gather your belongings and leave this place, woman, else you die here tonight.

She hurriedly hid her breasts in her gown, her eyes widening and turning fearful with confusion. Alder faced the whoremonger. “After our talk.”

“Of course,” the man chuckled and waved the woman away with a bored hand, not knowing he would never see his pet again. “I think she fancies you.”

“They all fancy me,” Alder said without a trace of pride—that quality had been killed in him long ago, strangled by the deep scar around his neck, hidden by his tunic. It was simply true that most found Alder irresistibly attractive. Whether whore or noblewoman, peasant or soldier, both men and women, meek and depraved, were drawn to Alder the White. They all shared in common a hunger, a deep, aching want—be it for wealth or beauty or love, or even the solace of eternal darkness. Perhaps they did not sense any one particular prize in Alder, but only his great power, sinister and primitive. And they yearned for that unknown power. Yearned to be closer to him, to touch him, and have that touch returned.

They did not know until it was too late that Alder’s touch meant their destruction.

“And why not fancy you, I ask!” the whoremonger chuckled. “A comely bloke such as yourself, obviously in no want for coin.” His smile turned even slimier. “I’d wager you’ve got a big cock, too, ain’t ye?”

Alder shrugged. “The vampires?”

The whoremonger’s eyes turned smug and knowing. “I’ve heard tales of men like yerself—wantin’ a spot of adventure, rushin’ into the forest to see ’em with yer very own eyes. ’Tis dangerous business, me friend. Most never return.”

“I’ve no fear,” Alder said, and that was also true. “Tell your tale.” He was growing impatient, and the ripe, dripping moon beyond the inn’s roof was moaning to him in throbbing whispers. His blood ached.

“The highlands once crawled with the beasts,” the man said. “They roamed the thick forests, attacking the towns and travelers in packs. Held in check only by an ancient family of witches, who some say were as evil, if not more so, than the bloodsuckers themselves.”

A shiver overtook Alder, and a roaring of memories like the sea in a tempest begged to be set free. “Witches, you say?” Alder was pleased that the tone of his voice conveyed only mild interest.

“Aye. Witches. The Levenachs. As red haired as the Devil hisself. They were the only ones who could slay the beasts, and they feasted on the rotting corpses to feed their power.”

Alder knew that last bit to be untrue, but he did not bother to correct the man, as his hope was growing. “You said the land once crawled with the vampires—are they no more? Destroyed by the Levenachs?”

“Nearly so, nearly so…but not quite.” The man gave another of his disgusting winks. “A hundred years ago, ’tis said the vampires and the Levenachs came to a great battle, led by a mortal man. Both sides were nearly wiped out when the Wild Hunt came down upon them and swept many of their numbers away to hell.”

This too was a falsehood. The Hunt had indeed come to the battle, but Alder had been the band’s archangel leader’s only prisoner. ’Twould have been more merciful had he been swept away to hell, for even though he had escaped his captivity, still Alder smelled the sulphured smoke from the winged horse’s hooves, felt the snap of the golden lead around his own neck. Even while he spent his nights running from the vengeful pack who would not rest until they had reclaimed their slave once more, Alder was chased also by the screams of the damned echoing in his ears, and craved still their evil, tainted blood….

The whoremonger continued. “But the king of the bloodsuckers as well as a handful of witches managed to escape, leaving the corpses of their brethren about as a warning to all who would disobey the laws of Christendom.” The whoremonger had the audacity to cross himself reverently. “The land lay in relative peace for a time. But now…”

“Now?” Alder urged.

“The vampires roam again, a new generation spawned by the solitary demon that thwarted hell’s band one hundred years ago.”

Laszlo, Alder thought, the name echoing in his mind as if in a cave, and Alder’s blood bubbled, itched, threatened to burst from his cool veins and through his skin. Laszlo has crowned himself king.

“What of the Levenachs?” Alder insisted, for it was on this family his very soul depended.

The man blew obscenely through his lips and fluttered his fingers. “All but gone. ’Tis why I try to kindly warn you—one true Englishman to another—to stay away. There is no more safeguard to the bloodthirsty killers for mortal men who venture through the enchanted wood seeking adventure. The Levenach would just as soon kill you for sport. No one goes near the cursed wood lest they have a wish to die a horrible death.”

Alder had to force the words from his throat. “You said the Levenachs were all but gone—there are still some?”

“Levenach. One,” the whoremonger said, lifting his mug as if in a toast. He drained the vessel and then set it back on the table with a loud thump and even louder belch. “A witch-woman. The most beautiful and deadly sorceress in all of the highlands.”

“And she is the last?” Alder pressed.

“Aye. The last. And good riddance to her when she is gone, I say.”

“Indeed,” Alder agreed, pleased that his voice still emerged smooth and even from his constricted throat. “Where would a man wishing to die a horrible death find this last Levenach?”

The whoremonger raised his eyebrows, seemed to consider Alder for a long moment, and then leaned forward once more. The table shrugged and creaked.

“There is a road,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “West from Edinburgh toward the coast and Loch Lomond. Just past the loch, a forest seems to grow up from nowhere. A dark, narrow path joins the road in a clearing of black trees, their branches stripped from the trunks.”

They were burned, Alder remembered to himself. The archangel Michael’s fiery warning still remained.

“That path leads into the Leamhan forest, and to the White Wolf Inn, where the Levenach lies in wait for her victims.”

Alder started and his ears rang with the ominous words. “The White Wolf Inn?”

“Aye. ’Tis a ruse concocted by the Levenach to lure in the innocent and lost traveler, though I hear trade is quite slow of late.” The whoremonger roared with laughter.

Alder did not bother to feign amusement. “You’re certain of where this inn lies? Quite certain?”

“My friend, I have me very hand on the pulse of Edinburgh—indeed, of all of Scotland! Many a tale is told in my rooms and on me own pillow, no less. If you’re wishin’ for a bloody adventure, take the dark path into the Leamhan. But I warn you, you’ll not likely come out the other side the same condition as you went in.”

“That is very much my plan,” Alder murmured.

The whoremonger frowned. “What say ye?”

“Naught.” Alder leaned back in his chair and smiled at the whoremonger, a bit more relaxed now even though his hunger gnawed at him more impatiently than when the obscene man had begun his tale. Alder sipped from his all but forgotten mug. It was so very pleasant to be able to drink mortal refreshments once more, even if they did not satisfy him completely. His senses were so keen he could taste the faint tang of the brewer’s sweat in his fine, sweet drink.

Alder noticed that the inn where he and the detestable human had passed the evening was now all but deserted at the late hour, and the patrons had left for their own pallets or to the upper floors with their evening’s entertainment of the flesh. Alder could smell the depraved beings in the rooms above his head like so many roasted chickens tied up in sacks—only waiting to be brought out and consumed by the famished.

And Alder was starving.

But before the feast proper, a well-deserved prelude…

The whoremonger seemed to notice he and Alder were alone at that moment, although foolishly, it seemed to please the man rather than frighten him. He looked casually over each shoulder, then pinned Alder with a greasy smile.

“It seems we are without company, my strange and inquisitive friend. Shall I call a whore for you to take or have your desires been satisfied by me own grand presence?”

“I do find myself rather loath to be alone this eve,” Alder said, returning the man’s smile.

“Ah, so I reckoned,” the whoremonger chuckled and made to move his watery mass from his chair. “For you, and only you, I shall summon that fine knot of arse and send her to—”

Alder cut off the man’s words by reaching out and grasping his forearm. The moon’s own howl rang in his ears until he was nearly deaf with it.

“What would you answer should I request your company…friend?” Alder all but whispered.

The whoremonger paused and then a sick smile slid across his face as Alder stood and moved to stand just over him.

“Well, now, I would say that I don’t usually turn that way, but for a wealthy and comely friend like yourself…” He let the sentence trail away and licked at his thick lips as his eyes crawled up Alder’s body. “I am more than a mite curious at what lies beneath those fine, tight breeches.”

Alder easily pulled the man’s bulk from the chair and locked his arms tightly around the mortal’s shoulders. The whoremonger gave an almost feminine sigh of desire, and Alder knew his base presence was affecting the lowlife. The more evil and depraved the mortal, the easier prey they made. Like all the others, the whoremonger had a hunger.

So did Alder. And he could not resist speaking once more to the man.

“Do you wish to know,” he whispered into the greasy hair behind the man’s ear, “why it is I seek the Levenach, whoremonger?”

“Aye,” the man moaned, his need making him limp and dazed in Alder’s embrace. “Tell me.”

“The mortal man who sparked the battle between the vampires and the witches—’twas I.”

The whoremonger stiffened slightly and struggled to shake his head, his warning instinct of impending doom coming much too late to save him. “Nay—that battle was one hundred years ago,” he whispered.

“Indeed,” Alder agreed, and let his lips peel back from his fangs, at last stretching his mouth luxuriously. “And I am no longer mortal.”

Chapter Three

Beatrix felt resigned two nights later as she prepared to open the White Wolf for trade. She had spent the Sabbath in rest and reflection—between batches of ale in varying stages of brewing—and had decided to trust her father’s word.

She was Levenach. And she would wait.

The Leamhan around the inn had been peaceful and still since her last vampire kill, so although she would be forced to hunt tonight to preempt any attacks on the forest folk, she was heartened by the serenity she now felt. Especially since last eve, when the ancient Levenach well had once more reverted to showing her only images of the inn’s namesake running on swift feet over some unknown land, and no longer behaving like a human.

Bea skipped down the stairs and into the common room with purpose, replacing dried warding herbs over the door and window frames with fresh, potent bunches, and shooing the cats into the kitchen.

“Go on—you know how they like to make targets of the pair of you when they get into their cups.” But it was said with a wry smile.

The Leamhnaigh could not be blamed for their behavior. They were innocent, and must remain so for very good reasons. Should they learn the truth about the creatures stalking them, should they even think to take the old legends as truth, their realities would shift, change, and then Beatrix Levenach as well as witches throughout the highlands would have more to fear than the bloodsuckers.

It was up to Beatrix alone to end the vampires’ reign, once and for all. She didn’t know how that was to be accomplished, but she would do as her father—and the very blood in her veins—requested, and wait for the white wolf to arrive.

She let the smile linger over her face as she gave the stew a final stir and then reentered the common room to unbar the door. Dusk was falling through the fog, and the folk would be thirsty. Beatrix was thankful her inn and her presence would provide them a safe haven in which to pass the most dangerous hours of the night. It made her solitude feel a twitch more bearable.

She was only halfway across the floor when she heard the shouts from beyond the door.

Alder paced behind the fringe of trees along the woodland path, his long-sought destination directly before him, but the sunlight of late evening still too strong for him to take his human shape.

Yea, surely this was the place of the Levenach, for trouble was already afoot, and it was brought not only by his own—currently four—feet.

The faded timber and mud exterior of the humble-looking cottage was awash with the yellow glow of a score of torches, borne by a few more than that number of humans. Those which did not carry the sources of light wielded axes or thick staffs, and a pair of folk bore a long, cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Beatrix Levenach!” a man closest to the cottage shouted. “We summon thee, witch! Come and look upon what your wickedness has wrought and take your punishment, lest we set fire to your lair while you cower inside!”

The crowd roared in agreement and then seemed to wait for the door to open. When it did not, the appointed spokesman for the group continued his haranguing.

“Levenach! We have had enough! Your sorcery on our people has come to its end and we are here to finish your evil bloodline!”

Behind his thin fringe of trees, Alder paced, and flicked his black eyes to the pinnacle of the tree line and the orange glow of sunset that lingered there.

Don’t come out, Alder said in his mind. If she came out, the people were certain to kill her. A dead Levenach was of no use to Alder. Indeed, the last Levenach, dead by mortals, would mean Alder’s destruction.

He was the one who must spill her blood. He and no one else.

Don’t come out, he repeated.

The door to the inn opened, and Alder froze in his pacing as his savior, his nemesis, his destiny, stepped into the dangerous crowd of folk.

“What is the meaning of this?” the witch demanded, and Alder felt his pupils dilate as they took in the whole of the last living Levenach, his senses screaming out from the very power of her, even at the distance he kept in the sheltering tree line. His breaths shortened to stuttering pants, the hair on his back bristled.

The damnable sunlight, weak and ruddy though it was, threw back sparks from her fiery hair and the whoremonger’s words whispered in Alder’s ear: as red as the Devil hisself. She was as tall as half the menfolk gathered around her, and her arms, cocked on her hips defiantly, appeared long and slim in their rough garments. With each swish of her plain skirt, Alder thought he could see silvery washes of tracing light.

And he knew a shiver of fear for his soul.

He was shaken from his stupor as the mob leader again took up his grievances.

“And yet another, Levenach!” the man shouted and gestured impatiently for the pair of folk bearing the long-wrapped burden to come forth. Several women lingered on the fringes of the crowd, and their wailings pierced the air around the man’s accusations. “You canna explain this away inna longer! Your blood-thirst has drunk of its last victim!”

“Who?” Alder heard her shocked whisper clearly.

“My boy!” a woman screamed and fought her way toward the inn. She was seized by a pair of folk before she could reach the Levenach woman. “My Tom! Only ten and six—not yet a man and yet you had to have him, did ye nae? Ye monstrous whore! Evil! Evil!”

“Nae,” the witch whispered, and Alder thought he could hear physical anguish in the word. “Nae Tom!”

“Aye!” the mob leader shouted, shaking a torch at the Levenach. “Ye’ve lied to us, fed off’n us long enough, Beatrix Levenach. And now we will put an end to it!”

“Dunstan, surely you doona think that I—”

“What else are we to think, I ask ye?” the thick man—Dunstan—charged. “And unmarried woman, carrying on as if she were a man of business, a chief even—”

“But my betrothed—”

“He doesna exist!” Dunstan sneered. “For years we swallowed yer lies and those of yer father. The old tales are just that—stories. You nae more protect the Leamhnaigh than does the Devil hisself.”

Alder shuddered at the words, a sharp, frozen fingernail between his shoulder blades.

“And now you’ll pay for the lives you’ve taken. I know how to put an end to a witch,” Dunstan threatened, shaking his torch at her again. He looked over his shoulder at the group of forest men gathered behind him, their own torches growing progressively and ominously brighter as the sun sank slowly, too slowly. “Take her, and light the inn!”

The crowd shouted encouragement as the Levenach was taken roughly in hand. Alder saw her lips move, whispering words too low for even his sensitive ears to hear. A spell of some sort, perhaps, but if it was, it had no effect on her captors. Alder looked to the glowing treetops again.

Three more minutes. Two, mayhap…

“Light it!” Dunstan insisted again while the folk who held her dragged the Levenach to a gnarled old elm spread wide in the clearing before the inn. As they drew closer to his hiding place, Alder could feel the power of the Levenach throbbing in rhythm to his own shuddering heartbeat.

The folk charged with destroying the inn stood before it without action, as if hesitant to approach the humble building. But the inn’s fate was of no concern to Alder—he knew the Levenach’s moments on earth could be counted on one hand.

He looked to the glowing treetops again. A feral whine escaped his throat.

“Doona do this, I beg of you!” the Levenach screamed. “Dunstan, I am the Levenach! You are sworn to—”

“Doona threaten me with yer curses, witch!” the mob’s leader growled. He jerked her by her fiery hair. “The Leamhnaigh will be free from yer evil when we toss yer wicked corpse upon the burning coals of the White Wolf.”

A pained yip escaped Alder’s throat.

“Nay!” the Levenach shrieked and thrashed her willowy body side to side as a length of rough rope was produced and a crude noose was wrenched over her head. Alder felt his own throat constrict, his scar burn.

He could not wait a moment longer, sunlight or nay.

Alder crouched low, his white muzzle nearly touching the dirt. A squealing growl came from him as he shuddered, shuddered, then sprang from the tree line.

Chapter Four

I’m going to die, Beatrix said to herself in disbelief as the noose fell over her collarbone and then scratched itself tight around her throat. Someone behind her—it wasn’t Dunstan, as he still stood before her, glaring triumphantly—tied her wrists together.

Nothing had worked. The warding spell, the escape spell, the discernment spell—it was as if she sang a pretty lullaby to a group of savage sheep. Her father, the legends and prophesies—the well itself—had all been wrong.

She was going to be burned to death. And then the Leamhnaigh and all the highlands would fall to Laszlo and his vampires.

Tom’s mother fought her way to the fore of the crowd, and even in her own mortal fear, Beatrix’s heart wrenched for the poor woman, and for her sweet son, dead by the fang.

“Look, look!” The woman tore at the rough covering that shrouded her boy until Tom’s face, gaunt and white and shriveled, was revealed. His brown eyes, forever holding their fear wide, gaped at Beatrix. A strangled cry wheezed from her throat at the sight of the two black puncture marks on the young man’s neck. Whoever had fed upon the boy had drained him like a piece of winter fruit.

“His should be the last face your damned evil eyes look upon before you burn in hell, witch,” the woman gasped, and then spat in Beatrix’s face before collapsing in a half faint in the arms of one of her neighbors.

“I didna,” Beatrix whispered the plea to the crowd. “I swear it!”

“Would you light the fucking place?” Dunstan shouted, and the rope began to tighten around Beatrix’s neck. She rose onto her toes as her breath was cut off.

Help me, Da, Beatrix said in her mind as her eyes closed.

A low, wet snarl whispered in Beatrix’s ear the instant before the commanding shout of “Release her!” seemed to echo from the very heart of the forest.

Beatrix’s eyes opened, and a reedy stream of sparkling air slithered into her straining lungs. For a moment, Beatrix thought that she had already died, and that now she looked upon the angel that would bear her to her ancestors.

He…glowed as he emerged from the blackening forest, walking with a purposeful but rolling gait that emphasized his lanky grace, lean muscles crowded beneath his alabaster skin. His hair was so blond as to be nearly white, long and straight as it flowed back from his high forehead and disappeared down his back. He carried no pack, no obvious weapon—the stranger simply stepped into the forest clearing that was more than two days’ travel from anywhere as if he’d just come from his own house.

His command had been for the Leamhnaigh, but his eyes, the irises as black as the Levenach well itself, were for Beatrix alone. He strode toward the crowd as if he would bowl them all over.

“I said, release…my betrothed.” Around Beatrix, the Leamhnaigh gasped.

And then he was before her, his sinewy hands pulling the noose from her neck effortlessly as the crowd backed away. His scent enveloped her, like the perfume of a garden of night flowers, and the smell of a half-burnt piece of firewood, smoky and exotic. He spun Beatrix around to address the ties at her wrists and she could not help but gasp when his fingers found her own tender skin, like rogue sparks.

Beatrix heard Dunstan challenge the stranger. “Your betrothed, you say?” The suspicion in his voice was unmistakable.

“Aye, Beatrix Levenach is to be mine.” She felt his cool breath at her ear. “My name is Alder,” he hissed.

“Alder!” Beatrix stuttered as the ropes fell away from her hands and she turned to face him once more. “Why did you not send word?”

“I was…” the man paused, his eyes flicking over the crowd with a sneer. “Unexpectedly detained. Forgive me. Had I known that you were to be set upon by such savages I would have hastened to your side without concern for other business.”

“Now just one bleedin’ moment.” Dunstan stepped toward the white man. “We doona know you from Jake, bloke, an’ yer interference with the witch here is unwelcome. She’s a killer, stalking good and innocent folk when they trusted her, murderin’ ’em in their very homes!”

The man calling himself Alder whipped around and the queer sound of a hollow roar echoed in Beatrix’s ear at the swift movement. It was little more than a blur.

“My name is neither bloke nor Jake, and if you should take one step closer to Beatrix Levenach, I will rip both your arms from your torso and beat you to death with them.”

A shocked look of disgust came over Dunstan’s ruddy face.

“My name,” the man continued, now addressing the entire stunned crowd, “is Alder…de White. Beatrix Levenach was promised to me these many…”

“Six,” Beatrix chirped.

“Six years past,” Alder picked up. “By her father—”

“Aye, me da, Gerald.”

The white man sent her a warning look. Enough. “Gerald Levenach promised his daughter to me six years ago. I have been delayed in claiming her due to…matters of my estate in England. A plague on you who would seek to do harm to the head of your clan family. What would Gerald say?”

Tom’s mother staggered forward. “She’s nae our clan head—she’s a witch! She’s killed my Tom!”

Alder looked to the corpse and then back to the woman, his voice growing low and thoughtful. “My dear woman, pray tell, do you think it reasonable that even a woman of the Levenach’s stature could overtake a boy of Tom’s size?” Beatrix had the strange feeling that she could fall right into Alder de White’s voice and be lost forever. She found herself leaning toward him.

“Aye, he was strapping,” Tom’s mother admitted, standing a mite taller in her grief. “But she is a powerful evil, that one, and Tom trusted her. We all did!”

One eyebrow rose. “Yes, I could see her evil power evidenced by the easy way in which she escaped her own imminent death. Did anyone witness the attack?” Alder continued, looking around the crowd. Beatrix noticed that many of the folk were also leaning toward the white stranger, their gazes thoughtful, rather detached.

No one answered.

Alder swung around to face Dunstan, who was one of the few not mesmerized by Alder’s presence. “Is this your quest to settle a personal vendetta, mayhap?”

“What?” Dunstan shouted, his eyes widening.

“Mayhap you propositioned my betrothed and she refused you. Is it your pride that wishes to see her destroyed? Shall I challenge you for the Levenach’s honor?”

“I’m a married man!” Dunstan cried. “This is about murder, stranger! A concern of folk of which you are nae kin to, so—”

Before Dunstan could gather up the broken pieces of his speech, Alder addressed the crowd once more, taking Beatrix by her elbow.

“The inn will not trade this night, to give you good folk time to cool your tempers and see reason. My lady has had a trying evening at your very hands and I’m certain she wishes to rest.”

Beatrix opened her mouth, to say what, she didn’t know, but Alder frowned at her and she clearly heard the words “Say nothing,” in her mind.

“Any matter,” he continued, “I have a great desire to speak privately with my betrothed.” He began pulling Beatrix toward the inn. “Perhaps we will meet on the morrow under happier circumstances. In the meantime…”

Their backs were at the inn’s door now and he made a low bow to the crowd. “Will you not invite me in,” he growled, the exasperated question meant for Beatrix alone.

She started, as if from sleep. “Won’t you come in, Alder?” she said brightly, loudly.

“Thank you, my lady, I think I shall.” Alder looked to the stunned and gaping crowd a final time. “We bid you good night.”

Then he was bustling her inside the inn and barring the door behind them, leaving them both in the dark quiet of the common room.

Alder collapsed in a hard wooden chair as soon as the door was shut and locked, his mind’s eye full of the near escape both he and the Levenach had had. All those sharpened staves…

The Levenach woman still stood perhaps five paces from him, where Alder had left her. Her mouth was slightly agape and there was a delicate frown laid across her rust-colored eyebrows.

“You’re welcome,” Alder prompted.

“You came,” Beatrix Levenach said. “You actually came. The white wolf,” she said in wonder.

Alder froze. Did she know of his true nature? If she was as powerful of a witch as had been rumored—and Alder suspected she was—who was sworn to rid the highlands of vampires, Alder could have very well just locked himself inside with his greatest enemy.

A gorgeous enemy, for certain, but one that would leave him just as destroyed.

“Aye,” he said slowly. “Some do call me that.”

“You are the only one who can help me.”

“Didn’t I just?”

“You’re a killer of beasts,” she continued, as if he’d not spoken. “Of…of”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“vampires.”

Alder nodded and then gestured to Beatrix with a wave of his hand. “As are you, so I hear tell.”

The Levenach nodded. “My life, the lives of the Leamhnaigh, are in grave danger. The vampires are multiplying.”

“You know the one who stalks you?” Alder prompted, wanting yet dreading her to speak the name.

“He is called Laszlo,” Beatrix whispered. “The king of the vampires. He is verra old. Ancient. Dangerous.”

“As am I too all of those things,” Alder said, wondering at the warning he was giving her. “Although perhaps not as ancient as he.”

“Of course you’re nae.” A faint smile tilted her full lips for an instant and then was gone. “Why have you sought me?”

“It’s Laszlo I seek. He stole something from me, many years ago. I’ve come to get it back, and destroy him. Though for both those tasks, you, Beatrix Levenach, are the only one who can help me.” She gave him no comment, and so Alder continued. “You reside here alone?”

“Aye. My father died three months ago.”

Alder let his own smile curve his lips. “Gerald?”

Her teeth flashed. “Aye. A fine ruse we’ve concocted, the two of us.”

“There is no betrothed, then, is there? I’d not be set upon by an irate suitor as well as Laszlo and his fiends.”

“Nay, nae suitor. ’Twas but a buy for time with the folk until you came. My father told me you would.”

“Did he?”

“Aye.”

Alder did not question her further on the matter. “You hunt at night?”

The Levenach nodded. “After the inn has closed, past midnight. I sleep during the day and then open the inn for trade at dusk.”

Alder’s heart pounded. It was almost too perfect. “Then we shall both hunt at night.”

Beatrix’s eyes raked him from head to toe, and Alder felt himself stiffen in his breeches. “Where are your stakes?”

“Ah…I don’t carry any at the moment.”

“You can borrow one of mine. They are old—well used, and very effective.”

He gave her a seated bow, although he thought to himself that he would rather peel his own skin from his flesh than touch one of those ancient weapons.

After a long moment of each studying the other, Beatrix asked, “Are we to play at being betrothed, then?”

“I think it best under the circumstances, don’t you agree?”

“I do. But what of after? When we’ve killed Laszlo and the rest? What shall I tell the folk?”

Alder found himself staring at the pale curve of her neck, just under her crimson hair, where he could see her pulse leaping. Her blood was calling to him already, and he wanted to grab her now, throw her onto her back on one of the inn’s rough tables, drive himself into her while he drank his fill, mortal and undead passions united, slaked.

He shrugged. “Perhaps you will not have to tell them anything at all.”

She nodded as if this was a perfectly acceptable answer. “Well, then. I’ll show you to a room. The hunt should be an easy one tonight—the moon is waning now, and the beasts are not as heated.” She started for the narrow staircase.

Alder followed her with his eyes for several moments, his nostrils flaring with her scent, before rising from the chair and stalking the Levenach into the dark upper level of the inn.

Waning moon or nay, Alder’s own fire blazed.

Chapter Five

In the bowels of the snaking, subterranean network of caves that was his palace, Laszlo le Morte slumped in his favorite chair. It was a throne of sorts, fashioned painstakingly from the bones of his most treasured victims, bleached and macabre and cold—like Laszlo himself. And while the chair perhaps didn’t lend itself to a cushioned and pampered backside, it did give Laszlo a sense of lazy, privileged power, and he slouched regally in it whenever he could.

But this early evening, not even his regal throne could bring a cold smile to Laszlo’s long and pointed face beneath his short beard. The king of the Leamhan Vampires was troubled.

Alder the White had returned. And he had set up house with the Levenach. Perhaps the white bloodsucker had only entered into the witch’s abode to kill her in a spot of privacy, in which case, Laszlo would be pleased—after taking her blood, Alder would be mortal again and vulnerable to Laszlo’s attack.

What gave Laszlo concern was the fact that Alder the White had returned at all. Laszlo had taken the ambitious human’s blood—and his soul—personally. One hundred years ago, the Levenach witches had enchanted the forest, to prevent Laszlo and his unnatural and deadly children from capturing the magical well at its center. And so Laszlo had lured a mortal into the highlands with promises of vast tracts of land, choosing the young, power-hungry Alder de White for his fiery ambition, which had blinded him to the danger of Laszlo and his true vampire nature.

Laszlo’s plan had worked, bringing his bloodsucking offspring to the very cusp of the enchanted water, which once claimed would guarantee Laszlo rule over that dark slice of Scotland and its people forever. Unfortunately for him, Alder de White had realized his folly too late—only when Laszlo had sunk his fangs into the proud English neck for that final indignity—his screaming promise of revenge seeming empty and futile.

When the archangel Michael and his Wild Hunt had descended upon the slaughter of witches, thwarting Laszlo’s near victory, and seized Alder’s body from the forest clearing, Laszlo had assumed that his unwilling co-conspirator was to spend a soulless eternity in hell.

But Alder had somehow escaped the Hunt after nearly a century, and returned to the highlands for what Laszlo could only surmise was revenge and retribution. The latter for the Levenach—to take her lifeblood in hopes of regaining his soul, and revenge on Laszlo, for sucking that soul from his mortal shell. Laszlo was not fearful of the White; more…cautious. As slave to the Hunt, Alder’s power and knowledge of things, usually unseen to mortals, had undoubtedly grown. Engaging the rogue vampire directly could be very, very dangerous, but Laszlo would not be intimidated by a beast of his own making.

No, Alder the White must die a permanent death this time, while Laszlo himself kept a safe distance. Laszlo suspected the White would use the Levenach, as Laszlo had used the White a century ago. And so Laszlo must find a way to rid himself of Alder before Alder could rid himself of Laszlo.

Hmmm…puzzling.

He thought of the ways those of his kind could perish as he extended each long, bony, alabaster finger: sunlight, stake through the heart, several herbs were certainly potentially damaging, and being bled dry by another vampire. All of those possibilities were too dangerous for Laszlo to carry out personally. He could set his children to chase, but there were barely two score remaining now, thanks to that bitch, the Levenach. Laszlo could not risk lessening their numbers if he was to have a proper dynasty.

The only other choice was to build their ranks. The thought of tainting their exclusive tribe with the stupid forest folk caused Laszlo’s lip to curl. But after Alder was dead, the undesirables could be pruned.

Laszlo thought of how close he had come to being rid of the Levenach—the oaf Dunstan had nearly done the job before Alder had arrived. Greedy, dense of brains, and ridiculously strong, the forest man would make the perfect grunt vampire. It was no secret that Dunstan disliked the female Levenach, and Laszlo thought it would be an easy matter to recruit the idiot. That task he would most definitely do himself, and with pleasure.

Laszlo’s blood started to hum in his veins—the sun must have set. As if to confirm his suspicions, the screeching and mournful howls of his tribe itched at his eardrums as they roused themselves from the recesses of the caves. Laszlo pulled his lanky form from the chair and at last stretched with a lazy, satisfied smile, eager to slip behind the heavy curtain of darkness. Perhaps the folk had given in to their human weakness for drink only a pair of days after attempting to kill the inn’s mistress, and in the next several hours would be staggering home to their pathetic woodland houses. It was very much like picking mushrooms—mortals were so unbelievably gullible when drunk. And quite tasty, as well. Laszlo would feed quickly and then retreat to the safety of his natural catacombs to plan.

He raised his face to the rocky and dank ceiling of the cave, stretched wide his thin gray lips, and let loose his own cry, the call that would gather his children to their bloody supper.

It was time to eat.

It was time to hunt.

Beatrix laid out the weapons on a table in the now empty and tidied common room while she waited for Alder to descend from the upper floor. She trailed a finger along the knotted embroidery of Gerald Levenach’s quiver, which held the supply of freshly sharpened stakes. She’d never hunted with anyone save her father.

Was Alder de White truly a killer of beasts? Would his presence be an aid or a deadly hazard?

Beatrix suspected the latter, being unable to take her eyes off the man’s muscular body and enigmatic smile for the past two days. He made her blood rush as if by magic—it sang and pumped through her veins and whispered to her in an old, old language things of heat and lust and naked moonlight. It was prophesied that the white wolf would come to save the Levenach, and he had already saved Beatrix’s life in the clearing, true. But what was to become of her heart?

As the last living protector of the Leamhnaigh, Beatrix had always known there was little chance of her ever marrying. Who would she pair with? A man of the forest? None had ever shown the slightest interest in her as a woman, and it was clear now that the folk did not trust her. She could not leave the Leamhan forest while it still crawled with vampires, and even should she rid the land of the bloodsuckers, to where would she go? The wild highlands were her home and she had no friends or family left either here in the black thickness of forest or anywhere else. And what man was likely to wander into this cursed part of Scotland, seeking a witch for a bride?

She shook herself from her foolishness and turned her burning face once more to the tabletop as Alder de White’s boots whispered against the stair treads. His approach was stealthy, but she could feel his energy press against her as he descended into the common room.

“I’ve brought out my father’s things for you to use, if you wish,” she said, not wanting to turn and look at him just yet, with her cheeks still heated from the mere thought of him. Instead, she waved her hand over or touched lightly the items she spoke of as he came to stand at her side. She felt as though the floor of the common room was tilting, swaying her body closer to his. She made a conscious effort to stand upright.

“His quiver and stakes.” Her eyes only flicked at his shirt. “You’ll likely have to tighten the strap—he was a bit thicker of chest than you. Here is a pouch of five finger grass, and a phial of blessed water. I also have his long staff, if you’re the sort who prefers a bit of a fight before the kill.”

Then she did turn her face to look at him directly, forcing herself not to retreat at the close scrutiny those black eyes placed on her as they skittered intently over her face, taking in her hair piled high atop her head and tied with thin twists of leather, then dropping deliberately to her shirt and breeches. His nostrils flared, as if picking up her scent through the thick, rough wool.

A smile quirked his lips suddenly and he blinked, as if just remembering she was there. “I see you’ve dressed for the occasion.”

Beatrix’s face heated once more. “I canna be stomping through the wood in a skirt now, can I? I’d be cut down in a blink.”

“Take no offense, Levenach,” Alder said smoothly. His cool smile widened and he leaned to the side slightly as if to peer behind her. “’Tis a wise choice of attire. I particularly admire the backside. You will be leading me through the wood, won’t you?”

Beatrix’s mouth gaped open for a moment at his bold teasing and then she broke into a laugh, feeling at once at ease. “Is that how you speak to your woman in England?”

“I have no woman in England.” Alder’s smile relaxed into something only slightly less predatory. “Perhaps you are volunteering to be my woman in Scotland?”

“I am nae woman, Alder de White.” Beatrix grinned and began to divide up the simple but deadly tools into their respective piles. “I am the Levenach. I am a hunter. ’Tis my only purpose, so you can roll your slick tongue back inside your mouth.”

“I can think of somewhere else I’d rather put it.”

At this, Beatrix did gasp, and she swung her face back to his.

“Too bold?” Alder challenged.

“Aye, too bold,” Beatrix insisted, although her legs felt weak and her nipples tightened beneath the rough shirt she wore. “I may be Levenach and therefore nae meant for the mundane life of a husband and family, but I do demand respect.”

“What I said was meant only with respect,” Alder argued mildly, and picked up the quiver. He seemed fascinated by it, turning it this way and that in the dim candlelight. Then his black eyes pinned her again. “Neither of us are innocents, by the very role we play in this evil. I am not offering you marriage or children.” Beatrix swallowed and Alder tilted his head, studying her now. “But I’ve wanted your body since the moment I saw you in yonder clearing. What say you to that?”

Beatrix wanted to swallow again but could not, her breath frozen in her throat.

And aye was dancing on the tip of her tongue….

She cleared her throat, picked up her own quiver, and slung it over her head to seat the strap between her breasts. “Why do we nae see if we’re compatible in the hunt first? Perhaps you’ll be of nae use to me at all, and I’ll be forced to banish you for your own safety.”

He snatched her against his chest before the last word had cleared her lips, and the contact of his hard muscles against her loose breasts caused an involuntary mew.

She gave a nervous laugh. “Ah…or mayhap my own safety.”

“You’re not safe with me, Beatrix,” Alder agreed quietly and the breath of his words stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple. “Indeed, at this very moment, you’re in more danger than you have ever been the whole of your life.”

Her eyes were fixed on his mouth and she couldn’t help but let her tongue slide over her own lips. She wanted to taste that mouth. She felt a humming in her core. “I know.”

“’Tis well that you do.”

He eased back from her and, after a quick adjustment to the knots, slipped the strap of Gerald Levenach’s quiver over his head. Beatrix twisted, picked up the pouch containing the herbs and water, and held it out to him, but he did not take it.

“I’ve…no use for those,” he said uneasily. “But I will take the staff you offered.”

“Very well,” Beatrix said, her heart still pounding. “’Tis in the kitchen. We’ll pick it up as we go.”

Beatrix Levenach did in fact lead Alder through the wood for the first hour of their hunt, and he very much enjoyed the sight of her round ass in the men’s breeches she wore. The night around them was pitch, but Alder’s vampire eyes illuminated the shadows as if subjecting them to a white flame. Each time the Levenach high-stepped over a downed tree, the wool pulled tight over her curves, revealing her body in a way that was somehow more erotic than nudity. Seeing the freedom of her limbs, scissoring, stretching, lengthening—Alder could barely concentrate on his surroundings.

Until the first vampire launched himself from the blackness with a hiss and fell atop Beatrix.

Before Alder could reach her, the Levenach had spun out of the powerful claws of the bloodsucker, swinging her arms in a wide arc, and without even a cry of effort, drove a readied stake into the undead’s chest with a wet chunk.

The entire confrontation was over within the count of ten, and it had been almost completely soundless. Beatrix Levenach stood over the now-sizzling corpse, her breathing barely labored. She looked up at Alder and the fire in her eyes caused him to squint.

Here then, was the true power of the Levenach witch. Perhaps Beatrix was not the only one in grave danger from the close company the two now shared. If she discovered Alder’s nature, suspected his unnatural hunger, he could very well find himself beneath her sharpened stake.

“That’s one for me, Alder de White.” She smiled at him, and the magic of her caused Alder’s cool blood to roil like floodwaters. “You’ll need be a mite quicker than that if you’re to keep pace with me.”

He answered with a bow, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to seize her, strip her, drink from her, there in the black forest with the danger all around them. He wanted to confess his own evil to her while he did base and very mortal things to her body. His hunger was nearly out of control.

He had to feed—to quench at least a portion of his black appetite lest he lose all control.

The dead vampire’s corpse blinked into nothingness, and Beatrix nodded, satisfied with her work. “Well, then. Ready?” She turned and continued deeper into the forest.

Alder followed, his senses now tuned to the minutest signs of the wood around them. He could smell another vampire ahead and to the right and could barely suppress his howl. His eyes were all but blind with hunger, but before him, the Levenach glowed, taunting him. Should he not take this next kill, the witch—and perhaps Alder’s immortal soul—was doomed.

Beatrix passed safely by the clump of bushes where Alder sensed the bloodsucker lurking, and continued into the wood. Alder slowed, stepped from the rough path they had been following just before the stand of scrub. He slid the long staff between his shoulder blades and the quiver strapped to his back—Alder had no desire to play with his food at the moment. He was nearly deaf with the bloodrush in his sensitive ears, his nostrils full of the rancid smell of the vampire crouched before him, who followed the Levenach’s progress, readying to strike.

Alder let himself go. Moving so quickly, so quietly that even to himself his motions were a blur, he placed one hand on the vampire’s greasy head and the other on the cusp of his shoulder and pushed his palms away, the cracking of bone perhaps audible to the Levenach, some lengths away. Before the vampire could scream, Alder fell upon the man’s neck, crunching through the skin, his fangs sinking into cold flesh and setting loose the torrent of tainted but powerful blood. He drank and drank and drank….

“Alder?”

The call seemed a whisper, but Alder raised his head, feeling his eyes dilated to their maximum capacity, and he knew that should the Levenach have a chance to look upon his eyes in the light, she would see no white at all. His guts, his veins burned as though he had swallowed glowing coals. For an instant, he half rose, intending with all his instinct to continue his gorging on the redheaded witch woman who now sought him in the black wood. But his heart was slowing, his head clearing, his will reshaping itself into heady control.

She was nearly upon him now. “Alder?” Her tone was filled with alarm.

Alder let the melting corpse slip onto the leaves and then he skittered soundlessly behind a sheltering tree, dropping his head back against the trunk and taking enormous gulps of air. He scrubbed at his mouth, chin, and neck with his forearm, hoping that when she saw the blood on his clothes, she would attribute it only to the kill and not his beastly, quenched thirst.

He knew the moment she came upon the vampire by her anxious tone. “Alder! Where are you?”

He rolled to his feet and stepped from behind the tree on the opposite side of her, causing the Levenach to swing around, her stake at the ready.

“’Tis only I,” he said, his palms out.

“Eternal Mother!” Beatrix gasped and lowered her stake. She took a brief moment to catch her breath and then gestured to the faint, silvery imprint in the leaves, like the intricate trails of a thousand slugs. “You nearly took his head off.”

The vampire’s fortifying blood having sated him, Alder no longer felt that he was in danger of feeding from Beatrix Levenach, although the heavier desire to take her body still ran through him like a hot iron bar.

He smiled. “I could not let you best me.”

She laughed, seeming completely unconcerned that they were surrounded by a hostile wood littered with bloodsuckers. Her mirth and her ease caused Alder to stiffen completely in his breeches. What an odd combination of seasoned killer and soft woman the Levenach was revealing herself to be.

“The night is yet young,” she taunted. “And I’m nae accustomed to losing.”

Alder watched her forge ahead, leading the way once again through the darkness, and Alder’s eyes went once more to the silvery slime where he had drained the vampire of its tainted blood. For the first time, Alder wondered how he would ever bring himself to do the same to Beatrix Levenach when the time came.

Chapter Six

The Levenach, well-secreted away in the cellar, had spoken true—they were winning. Alder de White had been in residence for almost four weeks, and with his help, seventeen vampires had been sent to their ready hell. Although Laszlo still remained elusive, Beatrix felt that they were drawing closer to that devil as well. Soon, the king of the vampires would have no choice but to come out of his hiding and face them directly or flee the Leamhan forest forever.

In the meantime, the vampires’ slaughter had been stanched and the forest folk were feeling more relaxed and hopeful, and most certainly possessed of a more charitable attitude toward the Levenach. The inn was crowded with village folk from wall to wall, and the atmosphere was easy, merry. Beatrix freely shared smiles with the patrons as she served her stew and poured pitchers of ale, marveling at the radical shift in her standing in the community.

Alder had helped with that as well, as the men were fascinated by this English stranger with the odd accent, and the women were sweetly enchanted. Although Alder boldly baited Beatrix nightly, never letting a hunt pass without some erotic comment or look—and lately, a glancing touch—he never encouraged the womenfolk’s attention. They simply seemed unable to help being drawn to the pale, intense man. Beatrix told herself it was not jealousy she felt when a woman engaged Alder in coquettish banter, simply annoyance. Alder would not risk their mission by dallying with a Leamhan woman when the folk were under the assumption that Alder was Beatrix’s intended.

Even though a lie, that thought always succeeded in making Beatrix’s stomach clench, and lately, she had allowed herself the frequent folly of imagining the lie as truth. She told herself it was but a harmless way to pass the time between kills and the washing up.

The only development that gave Beatrix cause for worry was the marked absence of Dunstan from the inn. At first, she attributed the brutish woodsman’s avoidance to the humiliation Alder had dealt him the day he’d rallied the folk in the clearing. But Dunstan was never one to stay away from merrymaking for long, and even the Leamhnaigh were expressing concerns for him and his meek wife.

“He’s nae left his house in days.”

“Freda willna let anyone in—she says Dunny’s feelin’ poorly. Sleeps the day away.”

“The poor woman is worrying herself to naught.”

Although Beatrix held no great affection for Dunstan, she was still the Levenach, and she had decided that before she and Alder began their hunt in earnest that night, she would answer her responsibility and at last make a personal call on Dunstan and Freda’s cottage and inquire as to their welfare. Once that chore was done, she could give in to her wild desire to hunt down the bloodsuckers, with the bold and mysterious, amorous and dangerous Alder at her side.

What she was to do about him, Beatrix had no idea.

Alder was uneasy. Their hunt that night had been unsuccessful, but he had feared as much as soon as he and the Levenach had left the dark and seemingly deserted abode belonging to the forest man, Dunstan.

To Alder, the timber and mud house had reeked of vampire.

Beatrix’d had little comment on the absence of the mortal man, save to speculate that perhaps he and Freda had left the Leamhan forest for good. Alder did not think that was so, and he was darkly certain that Laszlo had a hand in whatever evil was afoot.

After all, Alder knew from personal experience that it was the king of the vampires’ nature to use those he considered beneath him for his own gain.

Alder remained more alert than usual throughout the deep hours of their hunt, but he neither sensed nor smelled any further sign of the bloodsuckers. They were obviously in hiding, and that worried Alder more than Dunstan’s mysterious disappearance. A trap was being laid, and Alder used every shred of his keen abilities to try to keep himself and Beatrix from falling into it.

They returned to the White Wolf Inn the hour before dawn, tired and dirty and frustrated. Alder was hungry again, but his need for blood was not yet so great that he felt the Levenach’s life was in danger.

Her breeches, on the other hand, were in grave peril.

A thorny bush had snagged a seam of the heavy woolen pants just under Beatrix’s hip early in the hunt, and ripped a wide gash beneath her right buttock. She’d given the damage little comment, and Alder knew it was because she thought him unable to see the crescent-shaped slice of white flesh flashing at him with every other step. But seen it he had, and imagined a great deal more. He was shaking for her by the time she pushed open the back door of the inn and Alder followed her into the darkened kitchen.

Before she could lay hand to a candle, Alder seized her around her waist from behind, causing her to gasp and clasp both of his forearms with her hands. He nuzzled her hair—the scent of the midnight forest clung to her, damp and dark and cold, mingling with her own sweet sweat like a cologne. He felt his fangs growing behind his lips.

“Alder!” she half-laughed. “I’ll step on the cats. Loose me so that I might give us light.”

“I don’t want light,” he murmured against the shell of her ear. “I want you. In the dark. I can’t wait any longer, Levenach. You’re driving me mad.”

Then she did laugh. “You’re only bothered that there was nae kill tonight. But you’ll nae take it out on me.” She tried to pry his arms from about her torso.

He held tight. “Why not?” he cajoled, beyond reason now. He didn’t care about Laszlo, didn’t care about his soul. Beatrix Levenach’s magic had enchanted him, and his flesh wanted hers. Needed it. Hungered for it. He had never felt so strong and yet powerless in the face of this foreign desire. “You, too, feel the frustration of our wasted efforts. You have no man save me. When I am gone, we will both be alone.”

She grew still. “You would talk of leaving already? We have not yet found Laszlo.”

“We will. Soon. Or he will find us.” Alder had heard the hurt in her words and it cooled his lust somewhat. “Levenach, I spoke true when I said that I was dangerous to you. After Laszlo is dead, I cannot stay. You wouldn’t want me to, if you only knew—”

“That you are using me?” Beatrix interjected, and Alder knew a cool stream of fear in his spine. When he did not answer her, she gave a chuckle. “I’m nae the Levenach for lack of brains, Alder de White. I ken that you’ve nae come here out of the goodness of your heart, if even you possess such a tender thing.”

Alder’s breath caught behind his fangs.

“I know verra little about you,” she continued. “But I do know that our lives are intertwined for the time being. If one of us should die before Laszlo is destroyed, so will the other perish. You need me as much as I need you, and that is why I doona fear you.”

“If you don’t fear me, then lie naked with me tonight.”

She turned her head slightly, as if trying to look into his face. “So that I can bear your bastard?”

Alder shook his head. “You won’t.” It was impossible. “I swear to you.”

She was still for a long moment, and Alder turned her in his arms. “I want you, Beatrix Levenach. I have not lain with a woman in longer than you would believe. Not because I’ve had no chance, but because I’ve not had the desire. My desire for you is destructive, it’s eating at me. It makes me think of doing things you would not like. Violent things.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, Alder,” Beatrix said softly.

“Don’t be so certain.” He could feel her pounding heart against his chest, pushing the current of warm and rich blood beneath the creamy skin of her breasts like a dangerous tide. He dropped his lips to her neck, fool that he was, to taste her skin. He murmured his dark fantasy against her silkiness. “I want to feel your power mixed with mine while I take you. It would be…spectacular. I want to hear you scream.”

She jolted slightly as her knees buckled and her head fell back. “You’re mesmerizing me.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I could not if you weren’t willing—you’re too powerful, Levenach. And you want me, as well, do you not?”

“Of course I do,” Beatrix insisted in a fierce whisper. He felt her fingertips crawling up his stomach, her nails digging into his skin, leaving welted crescents as her brand on him. She reached into the V of his shirt and slid her hand behind his head over the pucker of his scar, pulling his mouth against her pulsing neck until Alder’s fangs dug into his own lips. It was as if she knew…she knew he wanted to feed from her, and she was teasing him, daring him. “And it would be spectacular.”

He thought he heard a whimper, and he realized it had come from his own throat. Beatrix crooked a knee and hooked her calf behind Alder’s buttocks, pressing herself into his erection. He bucked. She moaned.

“I have to take you,” Alder said, although the statement was more a plea. He ran his tongue down her neck, across the front of her throat, and up the other side to the opposite ear. His fangs may have skimmed her skin, but he could not care. “Beatrix, Beatrix…”

Her hands left his neck and pushed between their bodies to jerk open his breeches. She plunged her hands between the fabric and his hair and seized him. Alder whipped his face away from her neck and hissed as his fangs erupted fully.

Dropping his own hand to the rip in the seat of her pants, Alder tore the backside of her breeches away in one vicious motion. He lifted her under her buttocks and sat her down hard on the edge of a worktable.

“Not here,” she gasped.

“What?” Alder demanded.

“I cook in here.” She seesawed against his groin, trying to scoot off the table.

“I can’t wait to go upstairs.”

“I canna, either—take me to the common room.”

He lifted her again and she locked her legs about his middle as he carried her into the large dark room and deposited her onto a table before the hearth. She fell onto her back and Alder wasted no time creating a seam in the front of her shirt where none had been. Her breasts fell free. The sight of her, her clothes hanging in shreds from her body, with only the most erotic parts exposed, caused Alder’s hips to pump once reflexively. He felt wild and evil and hungry, and like he would tear her to pieces.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Beatrix demanded, “Don’t hold back.”

It was madness he felt, and Alder gladly embraced it as he pushed his breeches down fully. His vampire eyes could clearly see her sex as he positioned himself at her entrance and he gave an openmouthed sigh at the slick, fiery contact. It had been one hundred years since he’d lain with a woman, but never had he been blessed with such a one as was bared before him now. The Levenach, the most powerful witch in all of the highlands, the most beautiful, the most pure, the—

On the table before him, Beatrix writhed and panted, her eyes flashing witch fire at him. “Do it!” she shouted at him. “Do it now!” She reached up with one long arm and grasped his shirtfront, jerking him forward and atop her with amazing strength.

Alder fell, catching himself with one palm on the tabletop, his other hand seizing one of the Levenach’s breasts, and he thrust his hips forward. She cried out and pulled him more fully into her with her legs, bucking up against him with another ragged cry.

Alder was blinded with sensations as he rocked into Beatrix, causing the table legs to screech on the floor. He wasn’t worried that he hurt her, for the more he gave, the harder, the more she demanded from him. She urged him on mercilessly, heedless to the fact that Alder was on the brink already. With each greedy command she gave, he swelled, ached. His ears rang and he heard strange sounds, smelled odors that didn’t belong—oil and smoke. The heat…

“Fire,” Beatrix gasped.

“I know,” Alder panted back. “I know, I—”

She shoved at his chest. “Nay, Alder—fire! The inn’s afire!”

She rolled from beneath him and Alder struggled to come into reality and see the yellow flames bubbling over the wooden walls only steps away from where he had been crudely taking the Levenach. The dried mud between the timbers cracked audibly in the heat and the entire room rippled with fire, roiled with oil-laced, choking black smoke.

His passion doused by actual flames, Alder yanked his breeches around his waist once more and spun away from the smoke.

The Levenach had vanished.

“Beatrix!”

Alder turned the other way and saw the front door outlined by the sunlight showing through its frame, brighter than the flames that were now creeping across and gnawing on the wide timbers on the ceiling over his head.

Dawn had come.

Alder was trapped.

Chapter Seven

Beatrix swam through the thick smoke, treading the black to the kitchen. She felt blindly for the long, heavy apron hanging on a peg inside the doorway and pulled it over her head to cover herself and scrunched the bodice up over her nose and mouth to filter the choking smoke.

“Bo! Era!” She knew she would not be able to see the cats in the burning fog, but she hoped that they would hear her voice and come to her. When she jerked open the back door, she thought she felt a soft swish past her calf and she left the door swinging wide. She turned back to the kitchen.

How had the common room become engulfed so immediately?

And why wasn’t Alder behind her? She heard a ripping crash from the large room beyond—the sound of wood past its breaking point—then a hoarse cry.

“Alder!” she half choked. “Alder, this way!” It was impossible to see through the smoke—the daylight pushing ineffectively through the back door did little but reflect from the wall of roiling black. Beatrix raised a warding palm at the raven barrier.

“Black as night, flee from my sight! To banish this bane, I call the rain!”

The choking curtain parted and a low white shape began to materialize—larger than Bo or Era, but slinking through the smoke on four legs.

A white wolf, his black eyes rimmed with red, his snowy coat dusted with soot, came at her muzzle first, streaked past her hand, and leapt through the open kitchen door. His big body bumbled into her, and Beatrix felt a slick wetness on her fingers, and the back of her hand. She followed without hesitation.

A crack of thunder heralded their arrival at the front of the inn, which was already coughing smoke from under its thatched eaves, and the first cold, heavy raindrops felt like ice chips on Beatrix’s face. She could hear shouts coming from the woodland path and muffled by the trees as the white wolf bolted into the cover of forest, his left flank a smear of red.

Beatrix spun back to face her home as the rain fell harder around her, sizzling on the coaling timbers and cracking mud. The footfalls of arriving woodland folk pounded into the clearing behind her as she at last saw the two people slumped against the inn’s door.

It was Dunstan, and his wife, Freda, shoulder to shoulder as a companionable married couple should be, only with their severed heads resting neatly in their laps.

Beatrix brought her hands to her mouth to cover her scream and felt the wolf’s cool blood against her lips as the first outraged cries from the Leamhnaigh pierced her core.

“Have mercy, she’s killed Freda and Dunny!”

Beatrix spun around again to face her mistaken accusers, and the rain washed her hair into her eyes. “Nay! I didna! He…they—”

“Look—their blood still on her hands!”

Beatrix stood anchored to the sticky mud before the semicircle of horrified folk, expecting to be rushed at any moment, but they only stood staring at her wide-eyed. Behind her, the inn sizzled in the rain, the flames in retreat, surrender moments away.

“Ye’ll pay for this evil, Beatrix Levenach,” one man said to her, almost sadly. Thunder rumbled over the treetops. “We trusted you. Trusted yer man. Where is he, now? Have you had done with him, as well?”

At this suggestion, the spray of people started like a herd of frightened sheep and began backing away toward the sheltering trees once more. Lightning struck deep in the forest, although the rain was little more than mist now.

“Ye’ll pay,” the man promised again. “And when next we come for you, there’ll be none who will stop us.”

With that dire promise hanging in the humid morning, the Leamhnaigh melted into the tree line like the smoke from the inn’s rooftop and were gone.

A flash of white caught her eye and Beatrix turned her head to see the white wolf limp from the wood and stop, staring at her, his sides heaving, his head down. He regarded her warily, and Bea could see that he was holding his left rear leg slightly aloft.

She sighed. “Come, Alder. Let’s get you inside where I can look at your leg.”

Beatrix turned and began to walk once more toward the back of the inn, not bothering to wait and see if the wolf would follow.

When Alder limped into the kitchen on two legs, the Levenach was already gathering a collection of supplies on the table to tend him. Her torn shirt and breeches were largely covered by one of her innskeep aprons, revealing only her wool-clad calves and the sleeves of her shirt. She glanced over her shoulder at the shuffle and drag of his boots on the stones but then quickly returned her attention to the task before her without comment.

She knew he was the wolf. His cold, heavy heart pounded and he could not bring himself to step closer to her. Perhaps even now the ingredients she readied were the poisons that would kill him. She was strong, she was smart, she was a hunter. She was sworn by her very nature to battle bloodsuckers, of which surely she now suspected he was one.

Beatrix picked up the small tray with one hand and strode to a far corner of the room. Bending at the knees, she pulled aside a heavy woven mat, revealing a square wooden door set in the floor. She pulled on a metal ring and the door rose. She glanced at him, and for a moment Alder thought he saw a flash of doubt in her eyes.

It was gone with her next blink. “Come into the cellar—there willna be as thick of stench, and we will be safe down there should the Leamhnaigh return.”

Then she was descending a set of steps invisible to Alder from where he stood.

He knew his own moment of indecision. The Levenach could very well be leading him to his death. Then he remembered her face, her demanding passion as they had made love in the common room. Alder had known from the beginning that his strange relationship with the Levenach would end in death, and as of this day, he would rather it be his own than hers. He would not drink from her. If she wished him dead for what he was, so be it. He followed.

He was only halfway down the steps when he heard her soft command of “teine,” and yellow light bloomed beneath his feet like a magical lake. As he stepped onto the lowest level of the White Wolf Inn, he saw that he was not only in the cellar, but Beatrix Levenach’s bedchamber.

She had secreted herself away from him, he realized, in an area of the inn Alder had never suspected existed. All along, he had thought her just within his reach while he slept, but the Levenach had wisely protected herself.

She walked to the bed pushed against a stone wall, and set the tray of supplies on her woven coverlet. The room was lit by four tall, standing candelabras, each holding seven thin, yellowed tapers. A small wooden table held a wash bowl near the head of the bed, a bright rug covered the oddly fashioned dirt and black stone floor, and pegs along the diagonally ascending risers of steps held a collection of clothing. Mundane furnishings, certainly, common to any simple sleeping room.

But the hair on Alder’s nape prickled and his fangs throbbed instinctively at his folly. He was in the magical lair of the Levenach, and Alder had never felt so vulnerable.

“Lie down,” Beatrix ordered as she strode past him to the hooks on the steps. She selected a long, shapeless gown and then ducked into the shadows under and beyond the stairs.

Alder limped to the bedside and lay down, careful to avoid jostling her supplies. His left leg throbbed and burned. He could feel his fangs semi-erupted in response to the pain.

Beatrix emerged from under the stairs a moment later, retying the apron over a long gown, and she came swiftly to the bed, her eyes averted from him.

“I suppose you saw Dunstan and Freda,” she said as she took hold of the two ragged edges of pants surrounding his wound. She ripped the tear wide, revealing the whole of his leg.

Alder nodded. “Laszlo’s work. I could smell his evil stench at the cottage earlier.” His words sounded awkward to his own ears, his lips trying to shield his elongated eyeteeth.

Beatrix turned a bottle of some unknown liquid onto a wadded-up rag and then began to blot firmly at the gash alongside Alder’s knee and thigh where the falling timber had torn his skin.

“He’s nae playing with us any longer,” the Levenach observed.

“Nay.”

She set the rag aside and picked up a needle threaded with thick gut. Alder’s leg twitched in anticipation of the stitches. His leg would heal well enough without them, yet he did not stay the Levenach’s hand, relishing even this opportunity for Beatrix to touch him while she continued to speak.

“He’ll end it soon, then.”

Alder nodded. “If he does not, then I must. Beatrix, the sun’s dawning means that today is All Hallow’s Eve.”

“I ken that, Alder. The day of the dead is an important one to witches, as well.”

What she meant by that statement, Alder could not discern.

“I’m sorry should you feel any pain,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. Then she bent over his leg and poked the needle into his flesh.

Alder’s leg stiffened reflexively, but the discomfort was slight. He spoke through clenched teeth. “The next sunrise must find Laszlo destroyed and me far from the Leamhan forest. When I seek him this night, you must not follow.”

She did not respond, only continued her ministrations with her brow knotted in a heavy frown. Her stitches were small, quick, expert.

“Best that you leave the Leamhan forest, as well,” Alder suggested. “Before nightfall. The folk will not be denied now.”

“I willna flee,” Beatrix said distractedly. “My family’s oath forbids it.”

“Then you will die,” Alder hissed and reached down with one hand to still her wrist and force her to look at him. “Either by the folk or by the fang. Beatrix, you cannot stay in this place alone.”

“I’ll nae be alone—I’m going with you.” She pulled free from his grasp. “Be still,” she commanded. “I’m nearly through.”

He let her finish the stitches in peace, although his mind raced with how to convince her she could not accompany him to Laszlo’s lair. Once she had knotted the string and cut the needle free with a short blade, Alder grasped her wrist once more.

“Heed me, Levenach,” he implored, the effort of concealing his fangs making his words slurred. “I ken that you have a duty to your family, and already you have fulfilled your promise—you’ve held the beasts at bay until my arrival, and now it is I who must finish it. Alone. I am also being hunted, by a creature that is not vampire, but neither is he mortal. If he finds me this night—and you with me—we are both damned. And even if he does not—” Alder swallowed. “Beatrix, I told you no falsehood the day I arrived. I am your greatest threat. You don’t understand.”

“I do understand!” she snapped in a low voice and held his gaze steady with her eyes. “Alder, I know you are a vampire.”

Beatrix let Alder keep hold of her wrist while her confession of knowledge of his true nature hung in the cool air of the cellar. She saw his throat work as he swallowed, the warm candlelight playing over his pale face.

“You knew before I came?”

“Nae before you came,” she admitted. “But as soon as you touched me, came near to me in the clearing.” She let a smile come over her face, although the last thing she felt was merry. “I am a hunter, Alder. ’Tis in my very blood. Think you that I could not sense what you are just because of your handsomeness? Or because you were prophesied to come by my family’s oldest legends?”

“You knew, and yet you did not slay me,” he observed, and his hand tightened around her wrist.

Beatrix twisted her arm until she could pull her fingers through the tight circle of Alder’s palm and lace their fingers together. She had made up her mind.

“Nay. You’ve already saved me once, Alder. I hold nae fear of you. I trust you. With my life, and with my soul.”

His face took on a pained expression. “Beatrix, no. Listen to me, on this day when the veil between earth and eternity is thinned, once Laszlo is dead I—”

She leaned over him quickly and placed a finger over his mouth, stopping his confession, whatever it might be. She did not want to know. She let her fingertips bumble over his lips, feeling the raised outlines of his fangs, and shook her head.

“I have lived in the Leamhan forest the whole of my life, and knew from a young age that I was to be the Levenach. I am sworn to give my life in protection of the Leamhnaigh, and that duty I willna shirk. But, Alder, you are the first man, the first person nae of my blood that I would willingly die for. I canna explain it, I doona understand it myself. And I doona care. If I must die tonight, then let it be by these hands, by this mouth.”

She leaned closer to him, her hunger for his body inflamed now that she knew with certainty that their hours together were few and dwindling fast.

“I don’t want to harm you, Beatrix,” Alder whispered.

She smiled at him again. “Could it be that you love me, Alder?”

He frowned, looked away from her face as if shamed. “It is not in my nature to love.”

“Oh, but I think it is,” she argued, and drew her body alongside his on her narrow bed. “I’ve never wanted a man before you, and now that you know I am not ignorant of who or what you are, you may take me with a clean conscience.”

“I have no conscience, either,” he nearly growled, and Beatrix could see his black eyes dilating in the flickering light, could hear his accent thickening as she ran her free hand up his chest and neck to caress his face.

“Then take me,” she said simply. “Give me what I ask for and let us have these last hours together.” She kissed his mouth lightly. “Alder, I am inviting you in once more. Doona refuse me.”

He took her mouth in a rush, plunging his tongue between her lips and pulling her roughly to him with both strong, lean arms. They were facing each other on the mattress now, and Beatrix drew one leg up to hook around his hip, careful of his injury. She longed to feel him inside her once more, to at last gain the release of desire he had built in her while the fire had sprung around them in the common room.

At her encouragement, Alder pulled her beneath him fully and reached down to drag the long skirts of her apron and gown up around her hips. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and she turned her jaw away to give him access.

“Don’t allow me to do this, Beatrix,” he said, his voice strained.

“I am making you do this,” she said, and arched her hips, pressing into him, taunting him. “You must. I command it. Make love to me, Alder.”

Then he did growl, sounding like his other four-legged self, and he snaked an arm between their bodies to free himself. “I will obey, Levenach,” he threatened hoarsely. In a blink, he slid inside her, and Beatrix cried out, matching Alder’s moan.

He drove into her rhythmically, firmly, steadily, filling her and more as he jarred her body with his length and his power. She panted up into his face, saw the gleam of his bared fangs, and the sight of them set loose her forbidden climax like an explosion. She cried out over and over as he pumped his hips faster, relentless in his pursuit, and when he dropped his open mouth to her throat, she cried out again, partly in fear, partly in anticipation.

She felt the initial prick of his fangs as he climaxed deep within her, felt them threaten and then abruptly withdraw as he screamed with his release. Beatrix’s head swam as if she was drunk, Alder’s cries sounding distorted, her own body quaking, her eyes blind with silver and white starlight in the cellar, and she took his vampire seed hungrily, willingly, gratefully.

They slept tangled together while the sun rose slowly to its pinnacle outside the crippled White Wolf Inn and hiked across the dome of sky, then began to sink over the treetops once more.

Neither roused when the stone slabs in the floor slid apart with a scrape, and the soot-dusted cats paced agitated circles around the bed legs. Bo and Era yowled mournfully, but neither their cries nor the light escaping the Levenach well caused the slumbering pair to wince in their sleep. The well’s single black eye shut tight once more before dark had fully fallen.

Chapter Eight

The bodies were gone.

Beatrix squinted through the thickening gloom of dusk at the front door of the White Wolf Inn, but the corpses were not just hidden in shadow. The mortal remains of Dunstan and Freda were no more.

In the place where the bodies of husband and wife had leaned together was a pile of herbs, bent twig talismans hastily assembled by the looks of the ragged knots, and bowls of coarse salt. A ragged X was scratched in the charred soot of the front door.

The folk had returned to claim the couple, and left the warding objects for Beatrix, perhaps thinking the charms to keep them safe from her. The knowledge caused a pinch in her heart. The people her family had protected for generations were using her own talismans against her. The symbol on the door was clear. They thought her a killer of the innocent. A murderer.

And now they would kill her if they had chance. Alder was right—she was no longer safe here.

As if the thought had summoned him, she felt his hand upon her shoulder. She’d not even noticed that night had come.

“Will you heed me now?” he asked quietly, the dark snuggling around them both like a cold blanket.

Beatrix shook her head. “Naught has changed. I still have a duty to fulfill.”

“How can you feel you owe them anything when they would kill you?” His words were gentle, yet demanding of an answer to his cool, vampire logic.

“I doona owe the Leamhnaigh, Alder—I owe my family. My father. If my oath was only of my blood and nae by my lips, mayhap I could flee. But I knew what I promised when I took the vow of the Levenach years ago. And I will honor that vow.”

His hand fell away, and if it was possible for one of his nature, his tone grew even cooler. “What will you do, then?”

“I will go with you to find Laszlo, and kill him.”

“I won’t take you with me, Beatrix, I’ve told you already—”

She spun around to face him, at last dragging her gaze from the pile of damning evidence against her. “Then I will go alone! Your reasons for revenge against Laszlo are your own, Alder, and you may keep them if you wish, but mine are clear and not to be denied. I have nae choice. I may have shared my body with you, but it doesna make you my laird. I am the Levenach, and in this place, I rule. You are a vampire, and you have no power over me, tonight of all nights.”

“No power?” Alder challenged, seizing her shoulders and pulling her to him. “Not even over your tender, mortal heart? I don’t believe you, Levenach. You would have killed me long ago.”

She shoved him away. “What of your own heart, Alder, white wolf of vampires? Does it beat for me? Would you shirk your vengeance upon Laszlo to flee the Leamhan forest with me and be my man?”

“My heart is not tender, nor is it mortal,” Alder replied quietly, stiffly. “Our future together would be a sad one, Levenach. And for you, very brief.”

“Perhaps not,” Beatrix argued. She looked into his eyes for a long moment, contemplating the gravity of what she was about to suggest. “If we succeed—if we seek Laszlo together and slay him, you could make me one with you.”

“Make you a vampire?” he asked in disbelief and then shook his head. “Never.”

“You would rather leave me?”

“Than to condemn you to a soulless eternity, hunted like an animal for your evil thirst? Yes, I would rather leave you!”

The black woods around them were eerily silent as they stood in the midst of their heated emotions. No wind stirred. And yet Beatrix could feel an impatience radiating from the elm trees on this night of magic, urging her, but she could not discern its intent.

“Then we doona have much time,” she said quietly. “This night, and only this night, which is already upon us.” She cocked her head and looked slightly over her shoulder as she heard the muffled voices of the crowd of forest folk coming through the thick wood for her. Her eyes found Alder’s again. “Go inside and collect our weapons. I have visitors to attend and ’twill nae aid my cause for them to see you in a temper.”

“Are you so foolish as to have forgotten the feel of the noose around your neck?”

“That was a different day, Alder,” Beatrix said and smiled in the dark. She knew she would never convince him with words.

Beatrix left him and walked to the inn’s door, bent down, and raked a handful of chunky salt from a wooden bowl on the ground. She stood and turned, crunching the mineral tightly in her fist until it burned and bit into her palm.

“Tonight, I am truly the Levenach. On this night, I am”—she swung her fist, spraying most of the salt in a wide arc over the clearing. Where each tiny grain landed, a white spark of light sprang up, until the clearing seemed alight with a mirror image of the starry, black sky above them—“a witch,” she finished simply. The sounds of the approaching folk grew louder. “I canna die at the hands of the Leamhnaigh tonight.”

Alder looked at her display of glamour sparkling on the ground for a long moment but said nothing. He turned and began walking back to the inn.

Beatrix now faced the wood alone, the bright orange glow of advancing torches blinking through the trees at her like malevolent eyes.

The kitchen had fallen pitch with the outside, and Alder laid a trembling hand upon the old quiver that had once belonged to Gerald Levenach. Then he picked up the sling that held Beatrix’s weapons. He held these things before him, studied them both with his vampire eyes. These were the tools that had allowed the Levenachs and the Leamhnaigh to survive these one hundred years since the slaughter that Alder had helped instigate. One hundred years ago this night, he had stood in yonder clearing a mortal man, an ambitious, power-hungry man, unwittingly unleashing an evil over this land and these peoples.

And Alder had sacrificed his own soul in payment, been sentenced to one hundred years of servitude to the hellish band of monsters led by a vengeful archangel who had used Alder like the animal he had become. Soulless, heartless, a cold shell of a body housing the rotten remnants of his memories of life and warmth and love. A killer.

It was supposed to end tonight. He was supposed to kill Laszlo and then take the lifeblood of the last living Levenach witch, regaining his soul and his human nature for the rest of a natural life. Setting to rights those old, evil wrongs. Ridding the land of both vampire and witch, forever and ever, amen.

A breath of mirthless laughter escaped his lips.

Alder let the quivers of stakes and magical talismans fall back to the worktable with a startling clatter and squeezed his eyes shut, his fists clenched before him. Beatrix’s lovely, mortal face was clear in his mind.

He would get at least part of it right.

The hair on the back of Alder’s neck prickled as the first inhuman howls reached his ears. He turned his head toward the back door of the inn, and the rotten, burned stench of old vampire wafted in on a frigid breeze. Alder’s fangs erupted, and he felt his eyes dilate as screams of the Leamhnaigh fell like stones through water.

Laszlo.

Alder moved through the door once more, this time as if in a dream. The Levenach’s weapons lay forgotten on the table.

The clearing beyond the inn was still lit by the Levenach’s white witch fire, and enhanced by the score of torches carried by the woodland folk gathered in a mob some distance away from her. The light burned the images onto Alder’s vampire eyes and he reflexively hissed, his anger, his bloody hunger ignited like an oil-soaked cloth. He swung his gaze to the sky, to the tree line, to the shadows that stalked the mortals in the clearing. He could see no sign of Laszlo.

But he could smell him, feel him and his minions.

He barely registered the Levenach commanding the forest folk, who clutched at one another and scanned the cold sky above the clearing before turning their attention back to Beatrix.

“You must flee now,” her voice called firmly. “’Tis nae safe for you here—there are killers afoot, and soon, this place will be awash in your own blood do you not heed me!”

“The only killer afoot is you, Beatrix Levenach!” a Leamhnaigh man accused, angling his torch at her, but fear was bright in his eyes. “The claim that you and your kin were the protectors of our people was naught but a lie! We were your own herd of sheep, were we nae? To cull and have sport with as you saw fit?”

“That’s nae true, and you well know it,” Beatrix said.

“It is true!” The man shook his torch at Beatrix again. “You’re evil! Evil! Ev—”

The man’s words were abruptly cut off as a black skeletal shadow swooped from the night sky and snatched him off his feet, leaving his torch to fall and roll on the dirt.

The crowd gasped and one by one the faces of the Leamhnaigh turned upward once more, their eyes as big as their fists, and they saw the swarm of vampires circling like the birds of prey they were.

Screams broke out as two more vampires broke rank to dive into the mob of mortals and, like herons at a lake, snatch up their food from the depths.

“Behind me!” Beatrix shouted, her own face turned skyward, keeping a wary eye on the hungry flock above her clenched fists held high. “Leamhnaigh, come to me!”

“Do it!” a woman shouted. “The Levenach is our only hope!”

Alder watched from the corner of the inn as nearly two score of woodland folk crowded between Beatrix Levenach and the front of the White Wolf Inn. He was deep into his own hunger now, so much that he could not help the mortals being preyed upon by the swooping and diving vampires. But he could feel clearly the glow and power of the Levenach, and his hunger trebled as she spoke.

“Ancient light, rid evil from my sight! As I command it, so it becomes!”

The roiling cloud of evil rippled and perhaps five of the vampires heeded the Levenach’s spell. After only a moment, though, they rejoined the flock.

Their numbers were too great, their power too strong, Alder realized coolly. He could not care. He had to feed soon, and the only sustenance that would do was Laszlo…

Or Beatrix.

She seemed to move slowly closer to him as he watched her hungrily, and Alder heard his own feral whine as if from far away. His vampire eyes could see every strand of her fiery hair, every pore in her creamy skin, and the vibrating light that surrounded her. He could remember the feel of himself buried inside her, the tiniest taste of her blood that had been left in his mouth when his fangs had scraped her neck, and he was ready to take her again. He would fly down upon her, knock her to the ground, and take her body and her blood in the same moment. Before her precious Leamhnaigh, where they could watch as he destroyed her and know the truth of her goodness as he drank it, used it up. And then he would destroy them all….

And then the most vicious scream shook the already trembling night air, announcing its owner’s arrival like wicked royalty, and Alder felt its vibration to his black, cold core.

“Beatrix Levenach,” the voice called, loud enough for the mortals in the clearing to hear, but also whispered like a lover into Alder’s ear. “You do look delicious.”

The sight of Laszlo le Morte strolling from the woods into the clearing like a dandy mortal caused Alder to go temporarily blind with madness. At last, there was the face that had haunted Alder these one hundred years—the pointed, bearded chin, the long, bony nose, the sharply slanted, black eyes. His arms were clasped behind his back, hiding from view the unusually long palms and fingers Alder knew he was so proud of. Alder could still remember the feel of those fingers digging into his shoulders, holding him down while his soul exploded from his being, his blood flowed out of his veins….

Alder crouched and then sprang, flying over the clearing in a single leap toward his unnatural maker.

But Laszlo was older, faster, and not even Alder’s supernatural vision saw clearly how fast the dark-haired devil flashed to Beatrix, bending her against his body, one impossibly long hand over her face, pushing her head away to expose the hump of her throat.

Alder fell to the dirt with a thud but then quickly sprang to all fours, ready to fly at Laszlo again.

“Alder,” Laszlo said mildly. “Why, it seems a hundred years!” The demon chuckled. Beatrix did not so much as twitch.

“Let her go, Laszlo,” Alder growled. “And put me off no longer. I will have your blood this night.”

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not,” Laszlo said thoughtfully. He looked down at Beatrix, leaned a mite closer to her neck and took a long, exaggerated sniff. A greasy smile slid across his thin lips. “Well, well—fucked her, have you? And—oh my!—what are these here? Fang marks?” Laszlo nuzzled Beatrix’s skin and laughed. “Tsk-tsk, Alder. Sampling the goods over-much, I daresay. Perhaps you’ve already drank enough of her, then, for me to end your life once and for all.”

“Test me,” Alder dared him.

“I think I shall,” Laszlo conceded. “Just as soon as I’ve had a taste of the Levenach’s fabled blood myself. I, too, have longed to savor witch blood again, and once again it is you who has given me chance, so I’m certain you won’t mind at all….”

He began to lower his open mouth, long, stained fangs protruded, and Beatrix’s right fist swung up from its dangle, smashing the remains of salt into Laszlo’s face.

Chapter Nine

Laszlo’s claws fell away from Beatrix and he hissed as he flew backward from her. Beatrix staggered aright and spat in the dirt, trying to clear her mouth of the close taste of his stinking flesh.

The vampire swiped at his face, and in the glow of salt fire and torch, Beatrix could see the melted pock-marks the mineral had left in his skin, like a sheet of candle wax onto which hot embers had flown.

The salt would not kill him, of course, but it had bought her time to escape. And it had shown Laszlo that the Levenach would not make easy prey.

“Not nice, Levenach,” Laszlo tsked, smiling through his pitted skin. He wagged a finger at her, and to Beatrix the digit seemed as long as her forearm. “Your determination is to be admired, but I do take offense. I would have taken you quickly. Now, I fear ’twill be much more painful if only because of your poor manners.”

“Test me,” Beatrix said, borrowing the phrase from Alder. “You die this night, devil.”

“Die? Me?” Laszlo began to chuckle. The chuckle grew into rolling laughter as, with swishes and soft thuds, vampires began to drop to the ground behind him, like a demonic army.

“Going to put end to us all, are you?” he guessed in a condescending tone. “That’s quite an ambitious task. I do hope you brought your supper along, Levenach. There is no mortal—or witch—who can match me. Your poor pet, Dunstan, discovered that too late. Smart enough to align with me, but too stupid to realize I had used him until he sat with his fat head in his fat hands.” Laszlo looked to Alder. “Remind you of anyone?”

Beatrix felt the crowd of Leamhnaigh gather closer to her, eventually flanking her. She let her eyes dart to the sides and saw that they had collected the talismans once piled against the inn’s door and were now clutching them defiantly in the face of Laszlo’s fiends. The folk now knew the truth, and Beatrix felt her ancient blood, her magic blood, shooting impatiently through her veins.

“Stay behind me,” Beatrix warned the folk in a low voice before addressing Laszlo once more. “It stops tonight,” she said to the vampire leader, realizing at once that Alder stood between the two groups—Beatrix and the Leamhnaigh on one side, Laszlo and his vampire offspring on the other.

In that moment, she did not know with which side he would stand.

But she could not allow herself—or her heart—to dwell on the repercussions of whichever choice he made. Tonight was All Hallow’s Eve, Beatrix was the Levenach, and she would honor her family’s vow to its ancient and unknown resolution.

Laszlo’s keen and evil senses must have caught her quick glance at the white wolf, for he homed in on it like fresh blood.

“You fancy he’s in love with you, don’t you?” Laszlo taunted, his children pacing and gnashing their fangs impatiently behind him, scraping at the dirt like beasts mad for the kill. “Perhaps he’ll take you with him when you’ve put through with me, eh?” He belched his despicable laugh once more. “Alder might be here to destroy me, true, but he also has another motive, do you not, Alder?”

Beatrix could not help but glance to where Alder had been crouched. He was no longer there. Her eyes flitted about the clearing, but she saw no sign of him.

She knew a blink of panic at the thought that he had abandoned her, but dismissed it. It did not matter. Alder was what he was, and naught Laszlo could say would deter Beatrix from her duty.

“Hmm, wonder where he’s flown off to?” Laszlo mused with a smirk. “Well, I’ll tell you why Alder is here, and why he’s kept such close company with you, Levenach—he needs you.”

“Alder doesna need me to kill you, Laszlo.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” the demon insisted, wide-eyed. “You misunderstand. He doesn’t need you to kill me, he needs your blood.”

Beatrix froze. “My blood?”

“Alder seeks his revenge on me, true, but do you know why?”

“Because it was you who made him a vampire,” Beatrix said boldly.

“Oh my, yes. And I must say he is still quite put out with me for that. He wants his pathetic little soul back, for what reason I can’t possibly fathom. He has come back to this place, on this night, one hundred years later, to try to regain that sorry scrap of humanity which I so graciously liberated him from.” Laszlo paused, looking at Beatrix with unconcealed glee. “Did you hear that, Levenach? One hundred years. Alder is no stranger to the Leamhnaigh. He has been here before. Think on it for a moment, if you must—what happened here one hundred years ago, tonight?”

“The massacre,” Beatrix whispered.

“Correct!” Laszlo smiled. “The massacre, exactly! One hundred years ago, I was led into the Levenach compound by…?”

“A mortal,” Beatrix choked out.

“Right again! And that mortal was none other than Alder the White, ruler of a small English settlement just beyond the border. He was hungry for power, and it was power I promised him. Drunk with the idea of it, he couldn’t get here quickly enough! He was so very offended when the truth came out.” Laszlo showed his fangs.

“I care not if ’twas Alder,” Beatrix said, trying to overcome her shock and not let Laszlo see how it affected her. “You tricked him. He’s nae to blame.”

“No?” Laszlo challenged, amused. “Well, perhaps not. But I do doubt you’ll feel so charitably toward him when I tell you that he’s returned for a purpose more dear to him than my destruction.” Laszlo took a single step forward and the folk around her bristled, readied for his charge. But the devil stopped his advance and only brought a grotesquely long palm to his mouth, as if imparting an aside.

“In order for Alder to regain his soul, he must drink from the Levenach’s lifeblood.” Laszlo straightened. “Of which you, my desirable little witch, are the last defender.”

Beatrix’s blood pounded in her ears. “You lie,” she whispered.

But Laszlo only shook his head with a knowing smile, and in that moment, Beatrix recalled all the warnings Alder himself had given her.

Laszlo stole something from me, many years ago. I’ve come to get it back, and destroy him. And for both those tasks, you, Beatrix Levenach, are the only one who can help me.

You’re not safe with me, Beatrix…You’re in more danger than you have ever been, the whole of your life.

After Laszlo is dead, I cannot stay. You wouldn’t want me to, if you only knew—

And just before they had made love this morning: I don’t want to harm you, Beatrix.

She at last completely understood Alder’s coming, and the point of his mission.

“Make sense now, does it?” Laszlo’s grating voice burst the poisoned bubble of Beatrix’s thoughts. She didn’t know how he had managed to move closer to her, but now Laszlo was perhaps only five paces away. The folk around her were frozen, as if mesmerized by his evil presence, and the vampires behind Laszlo also held their places. It was as if time stood still in the clearing, frozen like the cold night stuffed between the trees.

Laszlo’s black gaze, the color so like Alder’s but colder than hell itself, bored into Beatrix’s mind like frozen talons. His words were a sick caress. “Poor little Levenach—you asked him to make you vampire, but he refused. Didn’t he?”

Beatrix nodded. She seemed unable to do anything but.

“I won’t refuse you, Beatrix,” Laszlo whispered, and now the vampire stood before her, over her, although she hadn’t seen him move. “I will do it…right now, if you wish. Be done with these stupid mortals herded about you. Taste the true meaning of power, eternal power! Then you may chase after Alder the White forever, if you wish…only take my hand and it is done.”

Beatrix looked down and saw Laszlo’s unnaturally long and misshapen palm held open before her. The grotesque image wavered as hot tears filled her eyes. She wanted to scream “nay!” but her throat, her body, were frozen.

Except for her right hand, which was rising toward Laszlo’s, as if of its own accord.

Alder charged Laszlo from the darkness just as Beatrix’s fingertips hovered over the old vampire’s palm, and locked together they flew across the clearing into the dirt with matching screams of rage.

“Feed!” the ancient bloodsucker screamed to his minions as he struggled to throw Alder off.

Laszlo had mesmerized the Levenach, but at Alder’s interruption, she came to her senses and now rallied the Leamhnaigh as the howls of the vampires shook the very forest.

Alder wrapped his hands around Laszlo’s throat and slammed the vampire’s head into the dirt, but a moment later, Alder himself was rolling head over heels, his prey deftly escaped. Alder had barely come to rest against a tree when Laszlo was upon him once more, using his long fingers to scramble up Alder’s chest, a hissing squeal ringing off his fangs.

Alder rammed his palm into Laszlo’s nose and cheek, knocking the old one off balance long enough to throw him to the ground. Their heads lunged and bobbed at each other, mouths open, fangs elongated to battle length, each seeking an opening to rip and feed from his enemy.

Around them, Beatrix led the Leamhnaigh into battle against the other vampires, mortal screams mingling with hungry cries. The smell of blood was everywhere, the air was thick with death and magic and Alder could feel Laszlo’s black blood so close for the taking, could feel the greater storm building around them.

“Your evil ends tonight, Laszlo,” Alder growled, coming close enough to the vampire’s face to rake a gash along one bony cheekbone with his fang.

Laszlo howled in pain, but then drove his fist into Alder’s eye, dazing him for but a second. Alder felt the sting of fangs on his shoulder and rammed his knee into Laszlo’s stomach, sending the black one rolling away.

The ground beneath them began to hum.

“You will never best me, pup,” Laszlo said, staggering to his feet. He crouched down, at once at the ready, and Alder mirrored the pose. The two circled each other.

The ground began to shake, as if a thousand horses raced toward the clearing.

Baying hounds added their whispering song to the cries of both mortal and vampire.

“Do you hear it?” Alder taunted, even while the scar around his neck began to burn. “Does it sound familiar to you, Laszlo? It does to me, for I have had one hundred years as its companion. Its slave.”

Laszlo’s face, already the color of old bones, paled further. “Then you know that sound means your death.” Laszlo glanced around the clearing quickly, and Alder knew he was seeking a way to once more escape.

“After you,” Alder invited and then launched himself at Laszlo once more.

It was clear now that Laszlo was no longer fighting to kill Alder, but to keep his own blood in his veins and escape before the hellish band was upon the clearing. Alder’s fury gave him the strength to contend with the ancient one, and indeed, overpower Laszlo until the black one was facedown in the dirt and scrambling to get away from Alder. Alder opened his mouth wide and let his fangs scrape down Laszlo’s back, shredding his tunic and revealing scored and seeping fish flesh beneath the thick material. Laszlo howled and writhed on the dirt.

And then Alder felt the silver and gold glow of the Hunt’s light strike his face. The deep scar around his neck began to throb, as if crying out to be reunited with that golden tether.

Alder’s time was slipping away.

“Release me!” Laszlo begged over his shoulder. “The pair of us might yet escape! Let the Hunt take the rest—you and I will build a vampire empire elsewhere! We have the power—join with me!”

“I may join you, Laszlo,” Alder conceded and he stared down into those ancient, black eyes as the screaming, winged horses stirred the blood-scented air in the clearing. “But it will only be after I have sent you on to hell!”

Alder dropped his mouth to the back of Laszlo’s neck as the vampire raised his face in a final howl. Alder’s fangs crunched into that decrepit old neck, and he drank his revenge to its long-delayed fill.

Chapter Ten

The vampires were retreating.

Beatrix heard the stomach-churning cry of Laszlo le Morte, tangled in battle with Alder somewhere beyond the loopy ring of torchlight, but she could not see them. And, one by one, the lesser bloodsuckers sprang from their toes into the sky, some taking prey with them, others delaying flight to finish their meal hastily on the ground.

Was Laszlo’s scream one of triumph? Had he killed Alder, and was he now calling his minions away?

Beatrix’s breath caught in her chest at the thought of Alder lying dead on Leamhan ground.

“Alder!” she cried, her eyes straining against the glare of the—nay, ’twas not only the dancing flames that lit the clearing now, but a cleaner light, both silver and gold at once, coming in rolling waves from the forest. The ground vibrated beneath her feet and the screams of horses rent the heavy air, now scented with perfumed smoke and the misplaced odor of wet iron.

The Leamhnaigh were shouting, running about the clearing with no real purpose, trying to gather up the bodies of the fallen, crying out names of those who had disappeared.

“It’s hell coming! It’s hell! It’s come!” a woman shrieked from her place on her knees in the dirt, her fingers raking her cheeks.

Beatrix stood in the midst of it all, unmoved.

Sharp baying of hounds chased a rushing wind down the path, bending the thick trunks of the closest trees with woody screams. And then with a trumpet blast that sounded as if it came from the body of some beast, the gold and silver light exploded fully into the clearing.

And on that wave of light arrived a band of riders and monsters, the likes of which Beatrix could have never conjured in her worst vampire nightmare. Behind her, the Leamhnaigh fell prostrate to the dirt and were at last silent, only weak, muffled sobs breaking their terrified stillness.

Black dogs, some as large as foals, led the charge, loping and circling with their red eyes like beacons beneath the horses’ hooves. But those fantastic creatures could only politely be called horses as they appeared only partially equine, with elongated heads like fabled sea creatures, their long, scaly legs churning the air above the ground, their glinting hooves only touching the dirt as the band came to a halt.

The horrors astride the horse-beasts were worse. The leader seemed the height and breadth of two men, matching the impossible size of his unnatural steed. His chestnut hair was long, thick, and fell down his back onto the horse’s rump. He wore no shirt save a chain-mail vest, and carried a broadsword that looked as though it could fell a tree with one swing. The leader’s eyes fell upon Beatrix and she winced, brought up one palm as if to ward off his penetrating and too-bright gaze. It seemed his eyes pierced her soul like a blade, and Beatrix felt naked before him, her faults, her misdeeds, written plainly in the rippling, golden air that hung between her and the massive creature.

In the shadow of her hand, she could make out the leader’s companions: a menagerie of demons and corpse-like human monsters so vile that Beatrix felt dizzy. The reanimated dead rode with beasts from hell’s darkest legends, bloody and wounded, with horn and scale and claw where human appendage should have sprouted.

The leader’s horse snorted, danced, jarring the dirt and bringing Beatrix’s attention back to the commander of legion. His broadsword was sheathed now, and in its place in his palm was a coil of sparkling, golden rope.

“Beatrix Levenach,” the leader said, his voice like two boulders rubbing together, and Beatrix gasped that the giant knew her name. “I have come for the wolf. Where is he?”

“I doona know,” Beatrix said, her voice breathy and dazed to her own ears. “He battled a vampire. I doona—”

“Alder is a vampire.” He looked her up and down. “My vampire. And I want him returned to me. You of all people should be of little mind to protect the thing who once ravaged your ancestors.”

“He came here for his own revenge,” Beatrix argued, even though her voice cracked. “He fought the vampire who—”

“I well know Laszlo le Morte,” the leader interrupted. “And why Alder escaped his servitude to seek the bloodsucker.” Beatrix’s knees grew watery under the leviathan’s weighty gaze. “He has come for you as well, Levenach. You know this, yes?”

Beatrix nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” the leader said thoughtfully. His head swung away and where his gaze went, also went the brilliant light that surrounded him.

Beatrix dragged her eyes from the man’s fierce countenance to that which he sought, and in that moment, she saw Alder.

He stood over a pile of glistening clothing, and Beatrix knew at once that Laszlo le Morte was dead. Alder’s mouth as well as all his face from the nose down and onto his shirt was tarry black with vampire blood. His arms hung limp at his sides and his eyes were…resigned. He stared at the great leader with no fear.

“Most holy Michael,” Alder said, his voice flat, and then he stepped over Laszlo’s slimy, rotting remains and fell to his knees. “Have mercy on me.”

Beatrix’s eyes flashed up to the archangel. “Doona harm him,” she whispered. “And doona take him. Please. He was trying to make it right. He saved my life, and Laszlo is dead.”

But Michael behaved as if she’d not even spoken.

“Alder the White, you have broken your covenant.” Michael swung the coil of rope over his head once, and then let it fly. A perfect loop snaked across the clearing and landed around Alder’s bowed head, sealing itself over the deep scar circling his throat. “You will take your place in the Hunt once more.”

“Nay!” Beatrix cried.

Alder raised his head to look at Michael. “I made no covenant with you, holy one.”

“Indeed, I took you as my hunter rather than send you on to the hell you so deserved in your mortal life. That was our covenant.” Michael paused. “But now that Laszlo le Morte is dead, I suppose you may choose your fate. Join with me again, or meet your final eternity.”

“Nay!” Beatrix cried again and, heedless to the danger she put herself in, ran toward the archangel.

“Beatrix, stay back!” Alder shouted.

Rather than dance away nervously at her approach, the horse turned toward her aggressively, but Beatrix did not stop until her palms pressed against the horse’s burning side, near Michael’s calf. She hissed as her hands made contact and then screamed as Michael reached down and seized the back of her gown with one fist and pulled her from the ground.

He held her before his face, as a man might dangle a mouse by its tail.

“You try my patience, Levenach,” Michael said pleasantly.

“Please doona take him,” Beatrix pleaded, her fear causing her to shake in the grip of the angel. She could feel his power like the sun, penetrating her clothes, her skin, her very being. “I love him.”

“You would love a damned creature?” Michael challenged. “One who helped destroy your entire family and even now needs you for his own selfish desires?”

“He need not stay damned,” Beatrix said. “I know the price that must be paid for the return of his soul.”

“And you are willing to pay that price,” Michael observed.

“No!” Alder shouted and Beatrix heard his approaching footfalls. “I will not do it, Levenach.”

Beatrix was afraid to look away from the archangel. Keeping her gaze steady, she nodded.

Michael gave the rope in his other hand a jerk and Beatrix heard Alder’s strangled cry.

“Approach me not, wolf,” the archangel warned. His next words were for Beatrix, still suspended before him in his tireless grasp. “Are you certain you understand what must be done?” he asked. “You cannot swear it and then leave it unfinished. I will not allow the wolf to exist in his present form.”

“I know that Alder must partake of the Levenach’s lifeblood, and I swear to you that I will see it done.” Her voice was steady now with her vow.

“If you fail in this”—Michael’s eyes flicked over Beatrix’s shoulder—“I will return and kill you both. Evil begets evil. He will not be allowed to exist, and neither will you should you aid him in his depravity.”

“Before the night has found its end,” Beatrix promised on a whisper, “he will be whole once more.”

“Beatrix, you know not what you vow,” Alder choked.

“Very well.” Michael lowered Beatrix to the ground.

As soon as she was freed, she felt Alder rush past her toward the archangel.

“Take me with you,” Alder demanded. “Or send me on to hell. Only don’t leave me here with her. I won’t take her lifeblood.”

Michael snapped the golden rope and it came over Alder’s head, untethering him. “Should you not do as the Levenach promises, I’ll return and I will kill her for her lie,” Michael said simply and then coiled the rope with a flick of his wrist. “You are beholden to her vow—I make no covenants with vampires.” The archangel smiled slyly.

Beatrix approached Alder’s back, reached out a hand to touch him.

He spun and flung her hand away and Beatrix was horrified at the anger coming from him, almost as much as the tears in his black eyes.

“You don’t know what you’ve done, Levenach,” he choked. “You will destroy us both.”

Beatrix shook her head. “Trust me,” she begged. “Alder, you must trust me. ’Tis the only way.”

Michael’s horse-beast pranced again as the keening trumpet blasted through the clearing. The band of monsters that followed the archangel began a chorus of agonized screeching, as if eager to be away, but Michael had more to say to Beatrix.

“You have done well, Levenach, in caring for your charges, and I pray you succeed with this one as well,” he said, gesturing to Alder. He looked over the clearing before the White Wolf Inn, at the bodies, living and dead, scattered on the ground. “Once I depart, the Leamhnaigh will return to their homes. They will have no recollection of the events of this night, the dead attributed only to sickness. Do I not return to kill you, it will be your duty to protect the people from Laszlo’s leavings. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Beatrix choked.

“So be it,” Michael intoned. As the words left his mouth, a mighty gale rushed through the clearing, and Beatrix saw for the first time the massive span of wings unfold from the archangel’s back. The hounds took up their mournful cries once more as Michael tilted his head back and commanded, “Hunt!”

The gust from his departure from the ground knocked both Beatrix and Alder to the dirt, and the band swooped into the black forest with a deafening roar. In a moment, the clearing was nearly pitch, the forest folk’s torches and Beatrix’s witch fire having long since suffocated in the dirt.

They watched as the Leamhnaigh began to stir. They paid Alder and the Levenach no heed, but only gained their feet as if in a deep sleep, some working together to take up the bodies of the dead, and slowly dissolved into the night of the forest path, in the opposite direction of Michael and his Wild Hunt.

Now alone, Beatrix looked to Alder and found him studying her with barely concealed rage on his drawn and bloodstained face. He did not attempt to hide his fangs when he spoke.

“You’ve damned the pair of us.”

“Nay,” Beatrix insisted, her voice still aquiver from the night’s events. She rolled to her feet and held out a hand to Alder, trying to give him a smile.

Alder ignored her hand, gaining his feet on his own. He stood before Beatrix for a long, silent moment before walking toward the inn alone, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed.

Beatrix wondered if, when it was all over, he would leave her forever.

Chapter Eleven

Alder stood in the smoke-ravaged kitchen of the White Wolf Inn, the darkness not inhibiting his wicked sight, and he waited for the Levenach to follow, as surely she foolishly would.

The stupid woman. Stupid and foolish and…

I love him, she’d said to Michael. To the most powerful and deadly of all of God’s justifiers, Beatrix Levenach, witch of the Leamhan, had defended Alder the White, a vampire, and for him had wagered her life and her soul.

Alder’s eyes squeezed shut, as if denying himself of his sense of sight might lessen the burden of anguish he felt. It did not. His chest and throat tightened painfully, sensations he’d not felt in more than a century, and the cold fire of vampire tears leaked onto his cheeks and cut the black muck that was all that remained of Laszlo le Morte.

He could not damn her, would not. Should he take just enough of her blood to redeem his own wrecked soul, Beatrix Levenach would turn from huntress to hunted, with a depraved thirst that would last an eternity, or until someone drove a stake through her heart. Her pure, magical heart that now held mortal love for an unclean creature such as Alder.

And as much as the coward in him wanted to, Alder could not simply walk away from the inn, leaving the Levenach untouched. The vengeful archangel spoke true—he would hold to Beatrix’s oath, and return did she not succeed in redeeming Alder. Alder had seen Michael’s wrath played out for one hundred years, and he could not allow himself to think of the myriad of torturous ways Beatrix might be punished for her failure. Perhaps the archangel would even do as he had with Alder, and enslave Beatrix as a hunter in his vengeful band. The only certainty was that if Beatrix was either made vampire or left whole, Michael and his Wild Hunt would find her.

There was only one other choice, the single thing that would ensure the salvation of Beatrix’s soul, as well as her safety from the Hunt. And that meant that Alder had only a few short hours remaining to be with the only woman he had ever loved in one hundred and thirty years. A few short hours to make up for several lifetimes. To be worth eternity in hell.

He opened his eyes as her quiet footfalls scraped over the threshold of the doorway, and he turned to face her.

Even after his earlier rebuff, Beatrix came to him without hesitation, and Alder took her fiercely into his arms. “I love you, Beatrix Levenach. I don’t know how that is possible, but I do.”

The Levenach stilled in his embrace and then her arms tightened around his waist. “And I love you. That is why you must trust me, Alder. Trust me.”

Alder said nothing. She turned her face up as if she would kiss his mouth, but Alder averted his head.

“Let not your lips touch mine—I am soiled with Laszlo’s filth.”

“Very well,” she said lightly. “We’ll go below and wash you clean.” She spoke as if Alder had but been toiling in a field under honorable labor, rather than dirtied by the deepest evil under God’s heaven. As if mere water could wash away his sins.

She stepped away then but took his hand, leading him to the corner of the floor where the trapdoor to the cellar lay. Alder followed, every footstep drawing him closer to the moment when he would kill Beatrix Levenach.

Beatrix was atremble with fear and anticipation as she led Alder once again into the inn’s cellar. The candles still stood bright sentinels in the corners, but the glow they emitted seemed different in those last hours of All Hallow’s Eve—brighter, more pure, and sparkling with silver magic and mystery. The smell of stagnant damp was no more, having been replaced with the scent of a clear running stream in a quiet forest glade, a cool breeze chasing over the stones and making the candle flames sway sensuously.

Again she led him to the bed, this time to treat a wound more dire than the one he’d suffered from the falling timber. Alder sat without direction or comment, his long, white hair shielding his face, his shoulders hunched as if his physicality was at last catching up with his old, old age. She laid her hand against the side of his head briefly, her heart paining for the struggle she knew he felt.

“Trust me,” she whispered again.

He said naught.

Beatrix let her hand fall away and then removed herself to the shadows of the cellar to gather her supplies. He had not so much as shifted his weight in the time she’d left his side. She sat on the edge of the bed and dipped a rag in the bowl of blessed water.

“Take off your shirt,” she commanded gently. When he delayed, Beatrix let the rag fall into the bowl and reached both hands for the ties over his chest.

Her action moved him from some trance, for he raised his arms and pushed her hands aside before they could touch him.

“I’d not have you serve me,” he growled. “I am not worthy, Levenach.”

Beatrix could not keep the bittersweet smile from her mouth. “Oh, I think you are.”

He raised his eyes to her for only a moment, and Beatrix glimpsed such pain in those black, bottomless depths that she was forced to swallow before she could speak again.

“Throw the shirt on the floor. We’ll burn it in the morn.”

She was saved from his hopeless gaze as he pulled the blackened and stiff garment over his head and let it fall to the cold stones, his wrists dropping to his knees, defeated.

Beatrix kept her silence as she once more took the rag in hand and reached out to take a tentative swipe down Alder’s right cheek. The sticky black demon’s blood disappeared beneath the blessed water as easily as wind dispersing a pile of dry, dead leaves. Encouraged, Beatrix scooted closer on the mattress.

He did not look at her as she washed him, only continued to stare at the space between his soiled boots, but Beatrix could not help the welling of emotion she felt as she smoothed the rag over the white skin of his face, neck, and chest. How had she come to care so deeply and so quickly for a creature she was sworn to destroy? Did Alder’s coming to the Leamhan forest mean that they were fated to be together?

Or would her ancestors exact a high penalty for her blood betrayal?

Beatrix could not yet know. She would continue to fulfill her obligation—now that the king of the vampires was dead, it was her duty to care for those touched by his evil. To Beatrix’s mind, no one more deserved mercy and reward than Alder the White, who had not only saved her life, but perhaps her soul. She loved, when she had never thought that emotion to be in reach of the Levenach. The fear that ran through her was not because the great well might witness her act of mercy as an abomination, but because once Alder was whole again, he would leave her at the inn as he had found her—alone.

“There,” she said quietly, setting the bowl and rag on the floor and sliding them under the edge of the bed. She waited a moment and then took a deep breath. “Are you ready to have done with this, then? We only have a little time left.”

He turned his head—still bowed—slowly, slowly to look at her. “I cannot do this, Levenach. I have not the strength. The courage.”

“I doona—” understand had hovered on Beatrix’s lips until she once more looked into his eyes. The cellar around her seemed to fade to black night, making a tunnel of clarity from her eyes to Alder’s, and in that narrow corridor, Beatrix saw.

She saw herself in Alder’s embrace, similar to the way Laszlo le Morte had held her captive in the clearing. Alder’s face was buried in her neck as a lover might do, only Beatrix’s own expression was not one of passion, but of horror.

He drank from her, and she watched as her life flooded out of her body, her skin tightening and going gray over her decimated flesh, her limbs falling limp; her eyes widening, blanking. Alder raised his head, his own skin now a healthy pink beneath the tears on his cheeks and her blood on his lips. He laid her dead body gently on the ground, stood aright with a ragged yell…

And burst into flames.

Beatrix started, gasped, on the bed, and the cellar once more came into reality around her.

“You would kill me?” she whispered.

“I would not make you what I now am by only taking enough of your lifeblood to retrieve my own soul. It would damn you, Beatrix. But do you not fulfill your promise to Michael, he will come for you, and his punishments are worse than death, many times over. I care little for my life now, but you—Beatrix, you are yet pure.”

Beatrix’s head spun with the madness of what Alder was telling her, and he continued to speak as she tried to make sense of it all.

“I love you and would suffer the rest of a mortal or unnatural life for you, but we cannot share the same eternity. I must do what I can to save you. Out of my love. Can you understand?”

And then the crazy pieces slid into place and at last, Beatrix did understand. She smiled at him.

“You would spend the rest of your life suffering for me?” she repeated.

His frown deepened. “I would. But it matters not. We—”

“I’m nae certain that’s at all flattering, but I will hold you to your word, Alder the White,” she said, cutting him off and rising from the bed. She walked to the center of the cellar, facing the giant slab of black stone.

“Beatrix, what are you doing?” Alder asked from behind her, alarm sharpening his tone.

The Levenach stretched out her arms to either side, her palms facing the stone. She could not answer Alder’s question because, in truth, she did not know what she was about to unleash on them both. But she trusted that the power that had brought Alder to her would not forsake them now.

“Fosgail,” she commanded.

Open.

Chapter Twelve

Alder’s body began a queer trembling as Beatrix stood with her back to him, her hands raised, her red hair tossed by an impossible breeze in the close space. At her commanding word, the black floor itself, made in part from shining black stone, began to crack and slide apart.

Was the Levenach summoning hell for Alder? Something about her actions struck a fear in his heart colder than the vampire blood that coursed through his veins, and Alder wanted to flee.

Instead, he stood. He would not leave Beatrix.

As the gaping blackness that was the void beneath the stone widened, the candles in the corners of the cellar winked out, allowing first only night to flow from the crevasse, then shooting rays of silver light. Alder threw up a forearm to shield his eyes from the bright blades, sparkling like stars shooting across a midnight sky.

Beatrix dropped her arms to her sides and stepped back one pace, then a pair, until she stood next to Alder. When she turned her face and looked up at him, he saw that Beatrix, too, was more than a little frightened of what she had done.

“What is happening?” he asked.

She swallowed. “I doona know.”

Alder drew his arm across Beatrix’s shoulders and together they looked to the sparkling hole in the floor once more.

The first phantasm swooped out of the black like a streaking swath of fog, whistling a circuit around the cellar walls, tossing both Alder’s and Beatrix’s hair—white and red, tangled together. She turned into him slightly, and gripped his sides with her fingers.

The swirling apparition was soon joined by another, and another, and then what seemed an endless river of white erupted from the floor and turned the air in the cellar into a storm cloud, nearly deafening in its power. A cyclone of gauzy white, glowing, radiating energy and light, and seeming to push Alder and Beatrix even closer together.

Then, as suddenly as the storm had formed, it ripped into separate sheets and fell to the stone floor like giant raindrops, splashing into hazy, white shapes of…

People.

In the blink of an eye, the cellar of the White Wolf Inn was choked with scores of the spectral images, standing five and six deep against the walls in some spots.

Beatrix gasped beneath Alder’s arms and pushed away.

“Da,” she choked, running to one of the ghostly figures.

Although Alder could clearly see through their forms as if made of little more than smoke, the shimmery image that Beatrix ran to met her in a solid embrace.

“Honey Bea,” Gerald Levenach said with a smile. “How foine it is to hold you once more.”

“Oh, Da,” Beatrix cried, and began to sob against her spectral sire.

Alder let his eyes skim over the crowd of figures openly staring at him, and he felt his fangs erupting behind his lips in instinctive fear.

He recognized several of the faces. Even after one hundred years, he could not forget. These were the Levenachs of a century ago. The victims of the massacre.

Alder’s judgment was at hand.

“Is this him, then?” Gerald Levenach said to his daughter, and Alder forced his eyes away from the damning gazes of the ghosts in time to see Beatrix nod and swipe at her eyes.

“He did it, Da, as was foretold—Laszlo le Morte is dead.”

Gerald nodded and his eyes pinned Alder. “’Tis well. And what will bring the end of this evil, once and for all?”

“He needs us, Da,” Beatrix said. “In order to regain his soul, he must drink of the Levenach’s lifeblood.”

Gerald Levenach’s ghostly eyebrows rose. “Must he now?” He looked pointedly around the cellar at his otherworldly companions. “’Tis nae only up to me, Honey Bea.”

“I’ll not do it,” Alder said. “I love Beatrix. More than anyone I ever have in my mortal life or the unnatural one I have now. Better that you take me back into the depths with you than leave me, a monster, here alone with her. I will not damn her as I have been damned.”

“Damn her? I should hope nae, if you love her as you say you do,” Gerald observed with amusement. “Our clan will decide, as it always has.”

Alder did not understand the cryptic answer, but ignored it, dropping to his knees on the cellar floor. He now addressed the audience of spirits watching him keenly.

“I have done your family a grave and ancient wrong, and for that I am sorry. My greed and my thirst for war when I was still a mortal man led to the massacre. I was turned into what I am by Laszlo le Morte, but he is no more. I have hunted him for a century, a slave, and soon I will be condemned to an eternity of hell. Perhaps only what I deserve. But I will not sacrifice the last Levenach, the most good and noble human I have known in all my many years, to save myself. I love her, and I will not do it. I ask not for your blessing, only for your forgiveness.”

He turned to look at Beatrix; silvery tears ran down her cheeks. “I will say again to you, Beatrix: I love you. And I also ask you to forgive me for not being the man you deserve.”

“There is nae need to ask my forgiveness, Alder,” she choked.

Gerald Levenach turned his head to appraise his companions. “What say you, kin? What is your judgment upon this creature?”

“Guilty,” one phantasm intoned in a grinding voice.

“Guilty,” added another.

“Aye, guilty.”

And so it went, until all the spirits had voiced their damnation of Alder. When they were silent once more, he felt almost relief. He was guilty in their eyes. They would not allow him to take Beatrix.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“We’re all agreed then, White Wolf,” Gerald announced. “You are guilty.”

“I am.”

Gerald looked down at his daughter. “Let him be healed, Honey Bea. Give him the lifeblood.”

“Truly, Da?” Beatrix whispered.

Alder frowned, confused. “No.”

Gerald continued as if Alder had become less substantial than the ghosts populating the cellar. “You have fulfilled your oath. May our family’s lifeblood sustain and protect you both. The highlands need you.”

Beatrix threw her arms about her father’s neck. “I love you, Da.”

The spirits standing along the walls began to howl. Alder did not understand what was happening, but the cellar had started to cant queerly to one side. He blinked, and his vision blurred.

He blinked again and his eyes opened on blackness.

“I love you, Honey Bea,” he heard Gerald Levenach call from the void.

And then the whirlwind started once more, this time invisible in the endless pitch of the cellar, and Alder felt himself falling, falling….

“Drink, Alder,” Beatrix whispered into his ear. It was still so black…but it was warm, and Beatrix was pressing her naked body against his own cold flesh.

“No,” he mumbled, trying to turn his head away.

“Aye, drink. You must. The sun will soon rise.”

He could hear the first tentative calls of the forest birds, rousing from their nests and announcing the day. Alder could smell earth, the moldering leaves. He could feel the hard ground beneath his bare skin. Were they outside? But how had Beatrix…

“Alder, drink,” Beatrix insisted from the blackness again. “We have only moments.”

If the sun rose upon him, touched his skin, Alder was finished. “I will not damn you,” he insisted, feeling with his every sharpened sense the impending sunrise. “Let me be destroyed.”

“Do you love me or nae, Alder?” she asked urgently, her breath feathering his cheek.

“More than my own soul.”

“Then you must trust me. And you must drink now! Now!”

Alder felt the hellacious burn on his skin, and as he opened his mouth in a hiss, his fangs springing free, a warm, thin liquid flooded his mouth.

Beatrix pulled the cup away slowly, watching with frightened tears in her eyes as Alder writhed on the ground before the inn. She hoped she had not been too late.

She stood, her legs feeling like limp ropes, and faced the rising sun, reaching its arms over the treetops as if to seize the man on the ground behind her, who thrashed and gasped.

“Eternal Mother, I thank you for your bounty,” she choked. “The legend is fulfilled. Blood for blood, right for wrong. Let peace come over your land and peoples, and we will guard it well. Bind and banish the evil, as my man pours out his sacrifice on this sacred ground. I, too, make my own sacrifice.”

Beatrix emptied the cup of the remaining water from the Levenach well onto the dirt. It pitted the loose soil and turned it into a siphon, spiraling deep into the earth with a whisper and a shudder.

Behind her, Alder screamed, and his cry echoed one hundred years of pain and remorse.

The sun burst over the Leamhan forest like a fire-ball, tenfold as bright, burning Beatrix’s already watering eyes. The morning wind took up a march through the clearing, moaning with the satisfied voices of her ancestors, the final trumpeting end of a century of evil, come full circle at last.

And then all was very, very still.

She stood for a long moment facing the wood, too frightened of turning and seeing Alder’s body lying in a pool of nothing. Perhaps she had been too late, they had all been too late.

“Beatrix?”

At his weak and pleading whisper, she spun.

Alder lay nude on the ground, staring up at the streaked sky with wide eyes. She rushed to him and dropped to her knees at his side.

“Alder,” she choked, running her fingertips down his cheek. His skin, once so white it nearly glowed, was now pinkening, his black eyes lightening before her disbelieving gaze to a blue that reflected the morning sky above them.

He turned his head to look at her, and those blue eyes roamed her face wondrously. “You’re still alive,” he whispered.

Beatrix nodded. “And so are you.”

“But…your lifeblood?”

“It was in the well, Alder. The lifeblood of the Levenach clan is the blessed water that has protected my family these many years. You only needed permission to take from it.”

Alder huffed a laugh. “Well water?”

“Magic well water,” Beatrix clarified.

Alder’s chuckle deepened. “I’m alive,” he said, and held his palms before his eyes, turning his hands front to back. “Truly…alive.”

Beatrix also laughed, and when she saw Alder’s teeth—white and even—her heart clenched.

He was alive, and he was mortal once more.

Alder suddenly shot up into a sitting position. He seized Beatrix by her shoulders, turned her onto his lap, and kissed her, his mouth warm and wet and aggressive.

In but a blink, her desire for him was raging, and she drew her arms about his naked body.

He pulled his mouth away from hers and stared into her eyes. “I want a family with you,” he announced.

She laughed. “Very well.”

He dropped his lips to hers once more, but only for a moment. “And you will marry me.”

“Straightaway.”

He turned her onto her back in the dirt and she shrieked with laughter.

“Are you cold?” he asked. “Shall we go inside?”

Beatrix shook her head and then framed Alder’s face with her palms. “I’m nae cold, and I doona want to wait.”

Alder grinned. “Neither do I.”

And in that clearing on that morn, a new dynasty was planted, a magical and wide-branching tree that would grow and spread to protect not only the Leamhnaigh, but all of the highlands.

The following summer, the first white witch of the Leamhan forest was born.

LAIRD OF MIDNIGHT

Victoria Dahl

This story is for my boys, who are not impressed with love
stories but might be impressed with vampires.

Chapter One

Larmuir, Scotland—1595

He was back again.

The man. Every eye in the inn slid away from him as soon as his foot crossed the threshold. Kenna watched him mark each face with his gaze before he made his way toward the table in the farthest corner. Not one other person had dared to sit there since the man’s first appearance five nights before.

The MacLain, Cousin Angus had called him, his voice a whisper of warning. When Kenna had asked questions, Angus had shaken his head and stared hard at the ground.

But others had whispered. The last of his clan, they’d said. A curse handed down by the Devil himself. The MacLain’s great-grandfather had killed his whole family, and been punished in turn. Each MacLain chief could have one son and nothing more. No daughters. Not even a wife. Just a son delivered of a banshee woman whose ghostly form was torn apart in the violence of the birth. When the son came of age, the father died. The solitude of the MacLain men was inescapable.

For five days Kenna had pieced together these whispers, hungry to know why others seemed so frightened of him. He looked powerful, to be sure. Wide shoulders and muscled arms, and eyes that carefully measured each man in the room, as if he were walking into battle instead of sampling the ale.

He was neither handsome nor ugly, she thought as he shifted his chair to face the door. But his eyes…his eyes could capture souls. They were the pale green of drying leaves, cool and removed.

A hand closed over her breast. “Bah!” Kenna barked and slapped the head of the man closest to her. An explosion of laughter erupted from the table as the man protested his innocence.

“By God, she’s bonny,” the man next to him sighed.

“Keep your hands to yourself, peasants.”

They all laughed, taking none of the offense she’d intended. She was a peasant now, too. Or something even lower. The local serving wench. The woman who brought the peasants their ale.

The inn was growing more crowded. Peat smoke mixed with burning fat from the spit, thickening the air with an acrid haze. Already, it had grown busy enough that she would no longer be able to defend herself. Once her hands were crowded with the handles of heavy tankards, there’d be no batting away the eager fingers of the patrons. They’d caress her breasts and slap her arse and even sneak an occasional hand up her leg.

Kenna wanted to slump with weariness. She wanted to retrieve her next load of ale and dump it over the heads of the nearest drinkers. She wanted to spit and scream and drive them all away.

But it was either tolerate the hands that groped her bottom or starve. And she was done with starving.

“Wench!” a red-faced man called, jowls quivering with the movement of his jaw.

Kenna ignored him and carried her last tankard toward the far corner. The MacLain might be cursed by the Devil, but his corner was peaceful, and he never tried to pinch any part of her.

In truth, she liked being close to him. He was…dignified. Charming in a quiet way, like the gentlemen of her youth had been. Whether he was in league with dark forces or not, the MacLain was a gentleman, and she felt pulled toward him, as if he carried a scent of her childhood home.

“Sir,” she murmured as she slid the ale across his table.

He inclined his head. His strong brow cast a shadow over his eyes.

“Will you take supper this evening? We’ve bean stew and a leg of venison.”

“I will,” he answered. He rarely spoke, and Kenna found herself leaning slightly forward at the sound of those two words.

“And some bread perhaps?” she asked, as if there were any question she would bring it.

“Yes, thank you.”

She didn’t move. For just a moment, Kenna stood in front of him, waiting for him to say more and knowing he wouldn’t. But then his wide mouth quirked up into a crooked smile. At the sight of that smile, she lost her nerve and spun away.

What was it she wanted him to say? Would you honor me with a stroll about the inn, lass? She knew full well how a stroll about the inn with a serving wench would end.

“Fool,” she muttered and made herself keep moving even when she heard MacLain call out, “Wait.”

She had no time for mooning about, staring at a man who could offer her nothing more than a tumble. She was busy and tired, but she didn’t mind that so much. If only the men would keep their hands to themselves.

“Kenna!” Angus shouted from behind a barrel he was tapping. “Stop hitting the men!”

“They’ve no right to put their hands on me.”

“’Course they do. Don’t act so proud.”

“I am your cousin’s widow,” she hissed. “How can you suggest such a thing?”

“I’m well aware whose widow you are. Why do you think I haven’t sent you abovestairs with anyone? ’Tis not for lack of offers.”

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. “Well, thank you for your kind consideration, cousin. And you needn’t worry over the men. My resistance is free entertainment for them.”

“I know that. God’s bones, I’m trying to help. If you stop fighting, Kenna, they won’t be so rough with you. All they want is a tickle.”

A tickle. Yes, just a friendly rub or curious squeeze. And if a hand slipped beneath her skirts on occasion, what did that take away from her?

Kenna picked up the heavy tray of trenchers and turned slowly back to the smoky room.

She’d done this to herself. Her parents had warned her, but she’d been young and headstrong and fancied herself in love. Alas, it had only been reckless lust that had driven her into the arms of John Graham. They’d married, and after a year of living off the charity of his widespread family, traveling from home to resentful home, Kenna had fallen out of love with him. After two years, she’d fallen out of lust. And after three, he’d died, and she’d had nothing. Not even pride.

Now she had food, at least.

When she set a serving of stew before the red-faced drover who’d shouted for her earlier, his thick fingers crept beneath her arm to twist her nipple. She only halfheartedly banged his knuckles with the tray before turning away.

“Well worth the punishment,” he crowed to his chortling friends before giving her rump a painful squeeze. Kenna ignored him and served the next table. Two pinches and one rub later, she was down to her last trencher.

For the first time since he’d started coming to the inn, Kenna didn’t look at the MacLain when she approached his table. She only pushed the stew toward him and turned away.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a movement of his hand and jumped forward. If even MacLain began to paw at her tonight…Kenna blinked back tears and fled toward the narrow passage that led to the yard.

This wasn’t the first time that regret had overwhelmed her. She just needed a moment. Just a moment of quiet in the clear air of the corridor. Cold wind sneaked beneath the crooked door that led to the horse yard and stable. It carried the faint scent of manure, but the air was crisp and smelled of rain, and she dropped down to her haunches and laid her forehead to her knees to draw a deep breath.

She’d long ago ceased to imagine that her life was simply a bad dream from which she’d awaken. No, she no longer hoped to open her eyes in her fine, warm feather bed and go downstairs to break her fast with her family. Her father had disowned her for running off with a wastrel. So now she was only Kenna Graham, serving wench, and sometimes the reality of it was too much to bear. But only for a few moments. Even regret was a luxury now, and best saved for those moments before sleep overtook her.

A footstep whispered against the packed earth at the start of the passageway. “Lass?” a voice said.

Kenna cringed and took a deep breath. Time to get back to it.

“Mistress Kenna?”

That brought her head up. In this place, only Angus called her by her Christian name, and that was not his voice. She squinted against the dim. The faint light of the great room was blocked out by the man. When he shifted, the firelight caught his profile, and Kenna gasped and scrambled to her feet.

The MacLain.

“You did not look well.” His deep voice rumbled over her as he stepped closer. His shoulders brushed the rough wood as he walked. His body did not quite fit here. “Is aught wrong?”

“Nay,” she whispered. “I’m well.”

“You seem troubled.”

She could smell him now, a scent that reminded her of snow, it was so cool and pure. “How do you know my name?”

He stopped only a foot from her and frowned as if she’d said something odd. “I’ve heard it spoken by the innkeeper.”

Simple enough, she supposed, but why would he remember it?

“Why are you weeping, Mistress Kenna?”

She shook her head to deny it even as she raised the apron to swipe at her face. How embarrassing to be caught here like a moody child denied a treat. “I must return. I’ll be missed.”

Though she started to push past him, there was no easy route, and when he turned to give her room, Kenna found herself pushed against the wall and facing a very warm man. His hand rose and he set his fingers lightly beneath her jaw.

“Why are you not afraid of me?”

Pleasure seemed to emanate from his fingertips and spread down her throat like droplets of water trailing over her skin. “Should I be?” she whispered.

“Yes, you should be.”

The trailing pleasure slipped lower, tightening parts of her body that had spent long months in slumber.

The MacLain’s eyelids dropped. His gaze fell to her mouth, and Kenna realized she’d parted her lips to catch her breath. Nervous and too aware of his attention, she licked her lips, and his shoulders tightened.

His head lowered slowly, slowly, as if he were waiting to be stopped. She would have stopped him. Should have. But he was giving her a choice in this, offering her time to escape, and that made her want it.

That strange scent of snow clung to his skin. Kenna breathed it in as his lips brushed hers. And that was all it was. Before he’d even truly kissed her, MacLain raised his head and took a deep breath. Her mouth tingled.

“What are you doing here, lass?”

“I…I just wanted a moment alone.”

“Nay, I mean what are you doing here, in this place?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t belong here. That’s why the men won’t leave you be.”

Kenna pressed her back harder to the wall, trying to put a little distance between them. “They won’t leave me be because I have breasts and an arse.”

His chuckle shook through her belly and trembled her bones. “True enough.”

Her heart sped up in excitement, and Kenna blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. “Is it true you’re cursed?” The words seemed to come from someone else’s mouth.

His smile vanished. “Aye. I am.”

“I shouldn’t have—” she started, but if she thought she’d angered him, she was clearly wrong. MacLain kissed her again, and this time his lips pressed softly into hers and his tongue teased her lower lip. Startled, Kenna opened for him, and his warmth invaded her.

She would have sighed if she’d had the breath, but he’d stolen it all away. He eased into her, a slow assault that devastated her nerves. She could feel nothing of herself but her mouth where it touched his. And then his tongue as it rubbed against hers. His hands where they cupped her face.

Their bodies were separated by no more than two inches, but he didn’t push himself into her. He didn’t press her to the wall and grind against her.

And when Angus shouted her name loudly enough to rattle the walls, Kenna was struck with grief that the kiss was over.

“Kenna,” MacLain whispered against her cheek. His mouth trailed down to her jaw and whispered over her neck.

For a moment, she refused to open her eyes. She clung to the belt of his plaid and squeezed her eyes shut and imagined they were in a hallway in her father’s home. Later they would dance and flirt and Laird MacLain would lead her to her father and ask for permission to court her.

And that kind of dreaming was exactly the kind of idiocy that had led her to this inn in Larmuir.

Kenna let him go and slid to the side to escape the shadow of his body. “I’d best return,” she murmured and spun to hurry back to the taproom. She heard the door open and glanced back to see him vanish into the yard.

Wiping the last tears from her face, Kenna went back to her work.

Finlay MacLain’s fangs burned like slivers of metal pushed into his jaw. He paced the stable yard and let them descend with a groan of relief. They still throbbed, of course, aching with the need to sink into her body, but that he could bear. He’d learned self-control over the past fifty years, though he’d never faced a challenge like Kenna Graham before.

The woman was a temptation of scents. When she approached his table, she seemed to bring her own air with her, spiced with roses and green grass. It wasn’t soap or perfume, he knew that. Over the years, he’d gleaned hints from conversations with other vampires. Scent had much to do with attraction, and as a vampire, his sense of smell was sending him a blatant signal. Have this woman. Take her. She’s yours.

Kenna Graham was a mate. A woman perfectly suited to his body and his needs.

A mate.

Just the thought of the word terrified him. He’d been alone for so long. The choice had been his at first, but now it seemed a decree handed down by a higher power. God, perhaps, if he still existed. Or the Devil, as everyone else seemed to think. Either way, there was no room for a woman. His longing for her was already taking up too much space inside his skull and causing him to do foolish things. Like watching her. Following her. Kissing her.

At least he’d so far resisted the need to snap the necks of every man who touched her. It was a near thing each night, and getting harder, but he’d resisted. He hadn’t even stood and shouted a demand that they cease their pawing. Being associated with the MacLain would not help Kenna Graham’s station in life, and it was clear to him that she’d already fallen far.

Her way of speaking suggested an education in a far larger town than Larmuir. He’d even seen her scratch out a few numbers on a table top during a long discussion with the innkeeper.

Kenna did not belong here…but neither did she belong at Castle MacLain. He shouldn’t have kissed her, and he wouldn’t again. She might think her current life low, but Finlay would bring her lower still.

No one should have to live the way he lived.

“One more,” he muttered as he paced the length of the yard and back again. The rain soaked through his shirt, but Finlay didn’t feel the cold. His body simply adjusted to it, dropping down to a lower temperature.

One more murderer and he would be done. His fifty-year hunt would be finished. The monsters who’d killed his family would all be dead. But this last one…This last one would assuage some of his own guilt, too. Surely.

Finlay glanced up at the moon and watched it with a measured eye. Another hour and he’d need to leave, and still no sign of his quarry.

The last week of September. That had been the deal. But Jean was nothing if not smart. As wily as a serpent. And he could likely smell a trap from hundreds of miles away.

“Move, girl!” Angus shouted, giving her a push between the shoulder blades. She would have turned to snarl at him, but she was too tired and still in shock.

The MacLain had kissed her. Quite nicely. If he was cursed by the Devil, the evil hadn’t affected his lips. Nor his hands, which had touched her with such gentleness. How long had it been since anyone had touched her with care?

Frowning, Kenna made her way to a table to set new tankards down. A hand cupped her bottom. She brushed it away. That kiss had thrilled her, jostled her nerves into excitement. But now that her pulse had slowed to its normal pace, she only felt wearier, more exhausted than she’d been in weeks.

“Just let me have a peek of that sweet little kitten,” a thin old man mumbled, his hand closing over her knee. Any other day Kenna would have knocked her elbow into his head, but this time she just gathered up the empty tankards nearest him and tried not to yawn. She was too tired to care, and the idea frightened her. A month from now, or a year, what would she allow? A hand down her bodice? A playful quest under her skirts? And then what?

She didn’t want to think of it. This one night was enough to get through. And then the next night. And the one after.

When the door opened, sweeping in wet air, Kenna glanced up only to see if it was MacLain. When a thin black-haired man walked in, she rushed to the back to ladle up more stew for the tables not yet served. Mary, the other serving girl, flounced down from the dark stairway followed closely by the blacksmith, still rearranging the folds of his plaid.

Kenna averted her eyes. Mary seemed to feel no shame in it, but Kenna did not like the glimpse into her own likely future.

It wasn’t until she’d begun to serve the stew that Kenna realized a strange quiet had fallen over the inn. Her heart leapt in anticipation. MacLain.

But when she looked for him, he wasn’t there. Instead, the black-haired man sat at the MacLain’s corner table. It shouldn’t have angered her, but it did. That was his seat. This stranger didn’t belong there.

The man crossed his legs, his mouth angling up into a smirk as Kenna watched. When his eyes met hers, her whole body flinched. He smiled.

Heart flailing like a frightened bird’s, she spun away and pretended to swipe at spilled ale.

“Wench.” The man’s voice crawled over her skin like spiders.

She froze, staring at the scarred table.

“Wench. Approach.”

She’d never had any compunction about ignoring patrons before, but despite her fear, Kenna turned and walked toward him.

“I have need of sustenance,” he purred, the vowels of his words thick with a French accent.

Still two feet away, she stopped and bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, milord. I’ll get the stew.” There. That hadn’t been so bad. So why were her knees shaking as his gaze slid over her? He only wanted stew.

But it seemed her instincts were right. Before she could escape, his hand whipped out and latched on to her wrist. The fine leather of his glove held the chill of the night.

“What is that scent?” he asked, while Kenna tugged at her arm.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“That smell. It’s familiar.” He tugged her closer, and though she strained to resist, he moved her as if she were a small child.

Smiling up at her, he pulled her between his knees and slowly inched his face toward the skin above the neckline of her gown.

“Stop,” she whispered, her whole body shaking now.

His nose touched her breastbone, and the stranger closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Ah, yes,” he sighed. He pressed the side of his cold face to her skin and slid higher. “It’s the boy.”

“What? Stop!”

His nose nudged her chin up just before he slid high enough that his mouth touched hers. “What lovely memories.”

Terror soaked into her bones. A tear leaked from her eye and rolled down her cheek. The stranger dragged his cool tongue along her skin and caught it.

“He never did mind sharing,” he breathed. Even the air flowing from his mouth was cold. Panic bloomed where it touched her, then spread down her body like ripples in a pool.

She reared back, but his arms didn’t even strain as he held her. His smile swept into a grin, then the grin turned into something truly terrifying.

His mouth changed as she watched. Sharp teeth descended. Teeth like the fangs of a wolf, only sharper, narrower.

“Oh, sweet God,” Kenna whispered.

“No,” he drawled, his voice light with amusement. “Not God.”

She drew air into her lungs, unable to stop until they strained at her ribs. And then she screamed.

The beast laughed as she twisted, straining away from him, screaming. He laughed and let her struggle.

“Help me!” Kenna cried out, eyes rolling to find someone willing to rush to her aid. Every eye was cast toward the floor. “Please.”

One man rose, and then another. “Please,” she prayed thankfully. But the men scurried away from her, toward the door, and left it swinging open as they ran away. Three more men followed. The others all seemed frozen to their seats.

The beast’s hand curved around her neck, and Kenna expected to hear the snap of her own spine, but instead he only bent her down, drawing her closer to those glistening fangs.

“No,” she sobbed, but his eyes sparked with delight at her terror. The fear snapped into desperation and Kenna began to fight like an animal, twisting and bucking and scratching at his arms. Despite his leanness, his body seemed sculpted from pure strength, and soon enough, the wet of his mouth touched her throat.

The sure knowledge of her own death rose over her like a wave. She could see it, looming and dark, brutal in its blankness. The end of her.

She screamed. She screamed until she thought something must rupture in her throat. Then she made one last, desperate attempt at survival and let her body drop as a dead weight.

It worked. She slid low, feeling one sharp edge of a fang cut her chin as she dragged by it.

“You stubborn bitch,” the beast growled, curling his fingers into her hair. Pain exploded across her scalp as he yanked her up. The laughter in his eyes was gone. Now he looked angry.

She’d thought herself terrified before, but now she knew true fear. “Oh, God,” she breathed.

“On your knees,” he ordered, and Kenna felt her legs do as he demanded as if she had no say over them.

“Offer your throat.”

“No!” she cried, terrified because her chin was tilting up.

“When I am done feeding, you will retire upstairs and await my pleasure.”

“No. Please.”

His laugh held not a touch of warmth. “Save your begging for later, my sweet.”

Behind her, the door slammed hard enough that it sounded of a tree branch cracking. Another patron escaping. A man who wouldn’t stop her attack, but not willing to sit and enjoy the spectacle, at least. Small comfort.

“Unhand her!” The voice exploded through the room. MacLain.

The beast glanced up, but instead of alarm or annoyance, welcome flashed over his face in a quick smile. The fangs gleamed. “Ah, Laird MacLain. Never fear. They’ll remember none of this.”

“Get your hands off her,” MacLain growled. Despite that her body shook with relief, the hair on the back of her neck rose at the sound of that rough voice.

No alarm showed in the beast’s eyes, but he shoved her aside all the same. “You would threaten me over a woman? She’s a tavern whore, you fool.”

Kenna scooted as far away as she could, dragging herself until the wall stopped her retreat. “He’s a demon,” she whispered in warning just before her eyes focused on MacLain. His snarl matched the growl she’d heard, but that wasn’t what squeezed her throat tight. He’s a demon, she’d warned, but she needn’t have bothered.

MacLain had fangs, too.

“Sweet God above,” Kenna breathed, hastily crossing herself before she pulled her knees to her chest and made her body as small as she could. She barely saw the claymore rise, MacLain moved it so quickly.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the stranger barked too late. The heavy blade descended in a blurred arc. The stranger became a blur too, sliding away from sure death. An awful sound jumped through the air…flesh and bone rendered from its body.

“Please,” she breathed as the stranger roared. He drew his own sword—a miracle considering that his left hand tumbled across the floor toward her.

Whimpering, she pulled her feet in closer as the horrible remnant rolled to a stop six inches from her toes. But she didn’t have time to dwell on that macabre sight. MacLain’s claymore clanged hard against the other beast’s sword. Though MacLain pushed forward, trying hard to cleave the stranger in two, the man managed to dart to the side and slide past MacLain’s reach. He moved impossibly fast. More like a darting rat than a man.

His blood sprayed across the room. And then he was gone through the open door, leaving not even a shadow in the doorway.

Kenna watched, wide-eyed, as the MacLain turned, shoulders tight, claymore raised to fight. He seemed frozen like that, his body leaning slightly forward as if it needed to give chase and was held back by an unseen force. His back expanded with a deep breath. And then he turned back toward her.

She’d thought herself a relatively brave woman, but Kenna had no hesitance in playing the coward now. She buried her face in her knees and squeezed her eyes shut, as if she were a child frightened by shadows at the foot of her bed.

The thump of his booted step drew close.

“Lass? Are you hurt?” His hand touched her hair, and she flinched.

“Please,” she begged.

“Your throat…let me tend to it.”

She shook her head and pressed her nose harder to her knee.

“Kenna. Please.”

He said please, but there was no plea in that word. It was an order. But she couldn’t raise her face to him, despite that he’d just saved her life. Perhaps he’d only saved it so that he could take it for his own pleasure. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t. I swear it.”

“You’re not a man.”

He did not answer. Instead, his fingers drew a gentle line down the side of her throat. “You’re bleeding,” he whispered, a low rumble that shook against her skin.

He hadn’t denied the truth, at least. He wasn’t a man. He was a devil or a demon or a goblin. But he also wasn’t that beast who’d tried to eat her. Kenna opened her eyes and raised her face, but she didn’t meet his gaze. As he tilted her chin slightly, she kept her eyes on his shoulder.

“It’s only a scratch. He didn’t bite you?” He sounded confused.

“I jerked away.”

“You’ve a strong will.”

She slid her jaw from his grasp and looked down.

The MacLain sighed, his breath ruffling the hair that had come loose during her struggle. “Come, lass. We must go.”

That finally snapped her eyes up to meet his. He looked sad and weary and not at all evil. “Go where?”

“Away. Jean will return. It’s not safe here.”

Kenna pressed her fingers into the floor. “But I’ve nowhere to go.”

“You’ll come with me. To MacLain Castle. There’s no other way.”

“No!” she shouted, but she might as well have saved her breath. The MacLain leaned down, wrapped his hands around her waist, and tossed her over his shoulder. Despite her screaming, his step was sure and steady as he stole her away from her last chance at a home. And not one person met her eyes as she was carried away.

She was well. Unharmed. Terrified and facing a life he wouldn’t have wished for her, but unharmed all the same. Finlay sent up a quick prayer of thanks to a nameless god.

He’d been several roads away when he’d heard that terrified scream. He’d known it was her but tried to convince himself it wasn’t as he’d raced toward the inn.

Now new doubts swirled in his mind. He should have left her. Should have gone after Jean when he’d fled. But he hadn’t known what that bastard had done to Kenna. Hit her or bitten her or violated her in a worse way. She’d been so pale and small, huddled on the floor, terror and the scent of blood glowing off her.

A few seconds of hesitation and he’d known Jean was gone. The injured vampire would have left a trail of blood for only a few feet before the wound closed. Finlay would’ve been chasing shadows.

He sighed at the lost opportunity, then flinched when both of Kenna’s fists landed on his back with a strength that hadn’t waned in the two minutes since he’d stolen her from the inn.

“All right, lass,” he murmured over her curses as he leaned down to set her on her feet.

She scrambled away so quickly that she tripped and landed on her rump.

“Don’t run,” he warned as she lurched back up to her feet. He saw the determination in her eyes and shook his head. “You may run straight into Jean if you do.”

That pushed the gleam of flight from her eyes. She looked nervously behind her and edged a bit closer to Finlay.

The new moon left it dark as pitch. Finlay knew Jean was nowhere near, but he felt no guilt in keeping Kenna on edge.

She shook her head. “But he must be dead. You cleaved off his arm!”

“He will heal. Quickly. He is in pain, but he is not mortally injured.”

Her eyes narrowed as if his words angered her. “This makes no sense. None of it,” she snapped. “What is it you want? Do you mean to eat me?” Despite the defiant tilt of her chin, her mouth trembled.

“Eat you? Nay. Jean didn’t mean to eat you either. He was…”

“Tell me.”

“He meant to drink your blood.”

“Oh, merciful Lord. You’re a powrie!” Her hand curved protectively over her throat.

“No. I’m no’ a faery.” Nor am I small and wrinkled and ugly, he wanted to add, in the hopes that she would agree.

“You’re a servant of the Devil in some way.” She shook her head. “I canna believe I let you kiss me!”

“Kenna, we’ve no time for this now. I’m not evil. I promise you. Now let’s hurry. We must find a horse.”

“Are you mad? I shan’t stroll off to MacLain Castle with a monster! Just kill me here if you mean to do it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, woman. Would you prefer to ride on my shoulder the rest of the way? I can handle the walk, but I wager your belly would get sore.”

“What do you want with me?” she cried.

Finlay flinched when he saw the tears shimmering in her eyes. Her bravery had let him believe that she wasn’t still overcome with terror, but now he could see that she was too scared to do anything but fight him. Kenna was brave. And she was terrified.

Having experienced more than his fair share of fear in his life, Finlay felt his heart twist. “If I leave you here, he’ll return for you.”

“Why?”

“To get to me. He’ll kill you for revenge or keep you as bait.” He sighed at the desperate confusion in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he added softly.

“I’ll stay somewhere else, then. Angus has a daughter who lives on the other end of the lane and—”

“Jean would have no problem tracking you within Larmuir or even outside it.”

“But…” She shook her head, helpless.

Though he wanted to reach out and gather her into his arms, Finlay knew she wouldn’t welcome it. More likely, she’d scream. “Let me keep you safe, Kenna. Please.”

“You’re like him,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” he insisted. “I am cursed. But I won’t hurt you. I swear on my father’s soul that I won’t.”

Her hands rose slightly before falling to her sides. “I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”

She wasn’t talking to him in truth, but he answered. “If you want to live, Kenna Graham, you’ll come with me.”

Her hands found each other and her fingers laced together. She stared at them and seemed to find some calm within herself. A dog howled in the distance, and though she flinched, she didn’t look up. “All right then. You havena hurt me yet. And he has. I suppose that makes the difference.”

Anger washed over him, trying to mask the prickle of hurt beneath his skin, but there was no ignoring it. She thought him a monster.

And she was right.

Chapter Two

The horse shied again, dancing toward the edge of the trail. Kenna noticed that MacLain let it step sideways and calm itself before urging it on. His arms were curved around hers, pressing tight, just as the rest of his body was pressed to her side.

For the first few minutes she’d tried to keep her ankles crossed together so her thigh would not fit so snugly to his, but her muscles had threatened to cramp at the awkward angle. Soon she would have to give up on propriety altogether and hike up her skirts to ride astride. A twinge twisted up her spine every time the horse put a hoof down too hard.

“Are you warm?” he asked softly. The horse faltered, then caught itself.

“I am. Thank you.” His body glowed with heat where it touched hers, though she imagined his calves must be half frozen beyond the edge of his plaid. His legs would be covered if he hadn’t loosened the length of it to wrap around her. “This horse does not like you, Laird MacLain.”

“I paid enough for it to buy its undying affection, but apparently the beast does not adhere to his master’s bargain.”

“How is it that you don’t own a mount?”

“Horses do not like me, as you said.”

“Because of your…” She glanced over her shoulder, but jerked her eyes back toward the shadowed path when his breath touched her cheek.

“Yes,” he answered carefully. “Because of that.”

Well. Even an animal could sense his true nature. What a disappointment to know she hadn’t the good sense God gave a horse. “How do you travel, then?”

“I run.”

“But…” She glanced back again. His skin brushed her jaw, making her jump. Had that been his mouth or his chin? Gooseflesh bloomed on her skin. “But…but you said MacLain Castle is ten miles on.”

“Yes.”

How could a man run twenty miles in one night? How powerful must he be to travel such a distance?

The sounds of the night swelled around her, tightening the muscles of her shoulders into knots. Owls and crickets and little beasties rustling in the dry grass. Not one light sparkled in the distance. Not even the faintest hint of wood smoke tainted the air. She was alone here, the only daytime creature in this night world. And they were riding deeper and deeper into the darkness.

“Shh,” MacLain whispered. She thought he was trying to soothe the horse again until his thumb rubbed against her knuckles. “It’s all right.”

“I don’t think it is,” she whispered back, her voice hitching on the last word. A few hours ago, she’d thought she had nothing, yet something had been lost since then. She could feel a space, empty and hollow, inside her chest.

“Dinna cry,” he murmured. She felt his lips move against her hair. “I’m sorry.”

The space filled up with tears, and though she tried to hold them back, they spilled over and dripped down her cheeks. When MacLain urged her head toward his chest, she gave in and leaned against him.

“Sleep, lass. You’ve had a long day. Sleep now.”

“I can’t.” But she didn’t raise her head. The slow beat of his heart was as soothing as a lullaby. And regardless of what she’d seen tonight, the man still smelled of heaven. Of icy clouds and crisp air. “What are you, MacLain?”

He sighed, and the sound of it rushed against her ear. “I’m not sure I can explain it.”

“Have you not done so before?”

“Nay. Never. And it’s a difficult thing. Have you ever heard stories of a creature called a revenant?”

“I don’t think so.”

He shifted and tucked his plaid more tightly around her. Heat crept higher over her back. “There are tales of cursed creatures…Dead men who rise from their graves to exact revenge against those who’ve wronged them. They wander the land, living on the blood of their victims.”

“Is that…Are you one of those revenants?” She couldn’t keep the doubt from her voice. He hardly felt like a corpse. His heart still thundered against her cheek.

“I never truly died,” he said. “But I have spent fifty years hunting for my enemies. And I do drink blood.”

She felt him holding his breath after those words. She could hear the silence, because she held her breath, too. He’d been alive for more than fifty years? He drank blood? “Whose blood?” she rasped.

“I, uh, try to confine myself to cattle. I keep several cows.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s easier that way, as—”

She pushed up. “I mean, why would you drink blood?”

“I must. To stay alive. I am a vampire.”

Vampire. The word raised no alarm inside her head. It meant nothing to her. “Do you like it?”

“What?”

She felt his gaze touch her face as she looked up at him. “The blood.”

“Oh. I see.” He leaned back a bit, rolling his shoulders away from her. “Cow’s blood is only passable.”

Well, that answered nothing, but she could hear the embarrassment in his voice, and somehow his discomfort eased her own nervousness. However old he might be and whatever he might drink to keep himself alive, he seemed nothing more than a man in that moment. And what could she do, anyway? Question him until he agreed to release her? And then where would she be? Homeless and helpless against the attack of that French beast.

Sighing, she eased back to the hard comfort of his chest. “You won’t bite me, then?”

“No,” he rumbled in response.

She hadn’t realized his hand had hovered over her shoulder until he eased it down to rest against her arm. His fingers curled to hold her. The heavy muscles of his arm were a weight against her back, and Kenna became suddenly aware of how much she’d missed that. A man’s arm finding rest on her shoulders.

This man wasn’t a man at all. And yet when he’d kissed her, she’d felt like a woman for the first time in years. Kenna was frowning in confusion when the night floated her up into dreams of bloody demons with angels’ wings.

The sky was lightening to a midnight blue in the east. Occasional birdsong broke the silence of the predawn.

Morning usually filled Finlay’s soul with exhaustion, at the least. Not physical exhaustion, but a bone-deep weariness that sometimes spiraled into despair. But as this dawn approached he felt something entirely different. Anticipation. Such delicious anticipation that he wished they were more than a half mile from the castle.

The cold had soaked into him in the past two hours, turning his flesh cool. But where his body touched Kenna’s, he retained his warmth and absorbed hers as well.

Finlay drew in a deep breath, pretending to scent the night for danger, but his real goal was to draw the taste of Kenna Graham deep into his lungs. His whole body tightened as if his skin were drawing close.

He hadn’t thought much of holding her when they’d first mounted. He’d been busy worrying over Jean and berating himself for letting the man escape. And then there had been the added distraction of the skittish horse. Still, he’d quickly made room in his thoughts for the roundness of her hips between his thighs and the feather softness of her hair when it brushed his face.

His regrets were vanished now. Strange. Very strange. He’d lived for nothing but revenge, nothing but absolution…nothing more than that for fifty years. Perhaps the talk of mates and what that might mean to a vampire, perhaps the tales had been accurate.

Finlay closed his eyes and pretended that Kenna Graham wasn’t asleep. If she wasn’t asleep, that would mean she leaned into him because she wanted to. It would mean her body curved so effortlessly into his because she desired his touch.

A brief wave of dizziness overtook Finlay for a moment. Feeling foolish, he forced his eyes open. It didn’t help. Instead of picturing her in his mind, he found himself staring down at her mouth, faintly parted. Tiny wisps of white fogged in the cold when she exhaled. His cock tightened at the thought of leaning down and breathing her in.

He hadn’t exactly been celibate since becoming a vampire. In fact, at the start of his new life he’d lowered himself to shameful depths of immorality. That shame had worked itself into his bones, but not deep enough to stop his body’s needs.

So, yes, he’d had women, but he’d tried his best to keep his lust contained. He’d pressed it down until it was a flat, hard thing. Something bitter instead of sweet.

But now there was this.

Kenna sighed and rubbed the side of her face against his chest. His heart squeezed in response. He barely even glanced at the thick bailey walls as they passed. He’d made this journey countless times, but he’d never had Kenna Graham in his arms before.

A lithe, silent figure approached as Finlay led the horse past the inner walls. The mount was too tired to protest anymore. Its ears barely even flickered at the approach of a stranger.

“Gray,” Finlay murmured to his manservant. “I’ve purchased a horse. I hope you remember how to care for one.”

“Not so different from a cow, my laird,” Gray whispered.

“All right,” he responded, though he wasn’t so sure of that. “I’ve also brought home a visitor.”

Gray said nothing. Luckily, the care of Kenna would fall under Mrs. McDermott. Gray did not like people.

When the servant took hold of the bridle, Finlay swung his leg over and tried to slide off the horse in one smooth motion. Lines creased into Kenna’s forehead just before she opened her eyes, arms flying out as if to catch herself.

“Dinna fear. We’re at my home.”

Despite his soft tone, her eyes rolled wildly from side to side. The hint of dawn was too faint for her, he realized. She could see nothing.

“Mistress Kenna, we’ve arrived at MacLain Castle. You’ve a chance to sleep in a bed now.” Her jaw tightened, so Finlay added, “And nothing more.”

He was anxious to get her inside, but Gray’s voice stopped him. “Laird, we have a visitor. Another one, I mean.”

That froze him in his tracks. He inhaled sharply, testing the air for the smell of Jean. No. That wasn’t the scent he found. “Who?” he barked.

“A servant of the king.”

A courtier. Damn it. They were after him again, and he’d put them off too long. This would be trouble and he had no time for it.

Kenna twisted a bit, making clear that she wanted to be set down. Finlay reluctantly eased her to her feet. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Politics.”

“Who is it?”

“Just a courtier. Nothing more.”

Kenna frowned. “They know about you?”

“No.” The king didn’t know about him, but he and his people suspected something. Something that might benefit the crown. “It’s nothing,” he said again. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Kenna shot him a sharp glance, but Finlay pretended he hadn’t meant what he’d meant, and led her quickly across the courtyard. Not his bed, then. Not tonight.

“Laird MacLain.” The lanky young man bowed just low enough to convey the appropriate amount of respect and no more. “I am Guthrie, here as a servant to our king.”

Finlay inclined his head. “And here I thought you’d come to break bread with me.” The man’s tight smile offered the exact opposite of amusement. Finlay’s gut turned with dislike. He hated court and everything about it, and here was a man who clearly thrived on politics.

“The king requested that I come personally to remind you of your promise to present yourself at Stirling before month’s end. In case it has escaped your notice, the month draws quickly to a close.”

“I haven’t time for this right now,” Finlay snapped.

The man smirked. “You should be careful not to displease him. Again.”

God’s blood. He’d ignored James as long as he’d been able, but his refusal to show himself at court had only sharpened the royal curiosity. Finlay was aware of the rumors floating beneath the surface of polite society. No one suspected he was a vampire, of course. No one at court knew what a vampire was.

No, they thought he was a sorcerer, able to bend people to his will through magic. The king wished to find out if this was true, and if it was…Well, then Finlay would prove a permanent asset at court.

Ironically, if they knew the true extent of his powers, he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the king. Finlay tried one last excuse.

“I have no special skills to offer the king, and I am needed here.”

The courtier’s scornful glance about the hall made clear what he thought of Finlay’s words. “Regardless of your duties here, the king’s patience is at an end. Either you arrive at Stirling Castle before the end of the month, or you’ll be tried for witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft! That’s an outrageous insult.”

“Come now, Laird MacLain. All of Scotland knows you sold your soul to the Devil. But only the king knows what you received in return.”

“God above, that’s ridiculous.”

“I’m sure our liege will be pleased to discuss it with you. Or see you burned at the stake, of course.”

If I punch him, I will kill him, Finlay told himself. His fist clenched, but he managed to keep it by his side and didn’t even consider reaching for his sword. This preening bastard had no idea how lucky he was. Years ago, Finlay hadn’t known the meaning of self-control. Destroying everyone around him had finally taught him that lesson. He wished it hadn’t been so damned hard to learn.

“I’ve had a long journey, Guthrie. If you’ll excuse me, I mean to take my rest. We can speak over supper tonight, if you like.”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’ll have to extend my sincere regret, Laird MacLain. I left my men in Doune and must rejoin them for the journey back. I arrived last night, you know. In fact, I can’t imagine how I missed you on the road as you left. Passing strange, don’t you agree?”

“Not particularly. I wish you well on your journey, then. Godspeed.”

“And on yours as well, Laird MacLain. May it be soon.” The courtier touched a finger to his brilliant blue bonnet, put his other hand on his sword hilt, offered a tiny bow, and left.

Christ, he hoped the man had the good sense to remove the peacock feathers during his ride or he’d likely be killed by hunters. Or set upon by brigands. Finlay tried, and failed, not to smile at the thought.

Light eked past the tight seams of the shutters, so it was past time for him to find his bed. He wondered if Kenna had managed to fall asleep yet. She’d been as skittish as that horse when he’d led her inside. The sight of Mrs. McDermott had seemed to offer only the barest comfort. Then again, the woman was fantastically old. Perhaps Kenna thought the housekeeper was a walking corpse as well.

He waited for Gray to confirm that the king’s man was well and truly gone, and then Finlay took the stairs. The twisted hallway led to ten rooms, then up to the parapets above. But aside from his room, there were only three kept ready. Two of the doors stood open; the third was closed. This was Kenna’s room.

Before he even reached her door, he knew he would end up standing before it. He’d stand there and wonder. He’d imagine her inside. Finlay knew all this even as his feet came to a stop.

Worried that she might be cold, he drew in a deep breath and caught the scent of woodsmoke and hot iron. Yes, Mrs. McDermott’s grandson had laid out a good pyre of wood. The smell of fresh bread crept into the hallway as well, satisfying his next worry.

She was warm and fed and safe, and the sound of her breathing made clear she’d found sleep as well. Finlay could move on now, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared at the latch and told himself not to touch it.

It didn’t matter that she’d let him kiss her earlier. It didn’t matter that her bonny body had heated at his touch and grown wet as he kissed her. It didn’t matter because she’d thought him a man then, and now if she woke to find him watching her sleep, her heart might stop with sheer terror.

Ah, well. When she woke later, perhaps sleep would have stolen some of her fear. As for his own…Well, he didn’t have much hope that his fear would fade before he woke.

Kenna Graham was his mate, and he had no idea what to do with her.

Chapter Three

At first, the darkness was like a cocoon, warm and safe and familiar. But slowly, as Kenna tried to ease free of the muffling bonds of sleep, she realized something was not right. Her tiny room beneath the attic eaves of the inn might be dark and relatively safe, but it was decidedly not warm. And her regular pallet wasn’t thick and springy beneath her back.

Eyes wide open, Kenna lay still and tried to see something, anything. Finally, an ember caught her eye, then another spark of deep orange. The glowing coals looked like the gaze of a beast for a brief, frightening moment, and that was when she remembered.

The MacLain.

A tiny squeak escaped her throat before she could stop it, but then Kenna swallowed her breath, forced it back, and held it tight within her lungs. Was he here with her? Was he in the bed? She listened for breathing, but heard nothing and sensed no one. If only it weren’t so dark.

Before ten heartbeats had passed, Kenna had already grown impatient with her terror. She’d never been impulsive, and she couldn’t stand to lie there wondering what might be happening, so she sighted her eyes on those glowing embers and eased her feet over the side of the bed. She could picture the room now, a simple square furnished with nothing more than a bed and chest. The door was to her left, and it hadn’t been locked behind her when she’d been left here.

Forcing herself to stand, she moved three feet forward and reached her hand to the left. After a few tense moments of groping, she finally touched the wood of the door. The latch opened when she pushed it, and the door swung silently in.

Finally, a bit of light. Not much, but enough to see that her small chamber was empty. A candle sat on a table. Kenna wrenched it from the holder and pushed it into the embers. The wick caught, and she could see. Yes, she was alone, aside from the ghosts who lived here, and there had to be plenty. But after facing the hell-beast who’d tried to eat her earlier, Kenna couldn’t summon up fear for mere wisps of spirit.

And what of the hell-beast who’d kissed her?

Kenna slumped back down to the feather bed. She was in MacLain Castle. With the MacLain. And he was some sort of faery or demon or vampire, whatever that might mean.

She couldn’t imagine that she’d managed to sleep, but the bread and mead had filled her belly and muddled her mind, and sleep had been the only clear answer as to what to do.

But what to do now? Was it day? Night? She glanced at the shutters of the window and the three thick iron bars that kept them closed. Then she glanced at the open door. Well then. The easiest path seemed the best answer. Kenna pulled on her shoes.

Though she began with weak knees and a rattling heart, as the minutes passed and Kenna found nothing and no one in the passageway, she grew weary of her cowering and simply explored. She found the stairway easily enough, but when she reached the great hall, nothing moved there but two flickering rush lights.

Had she been left here alone then? The last traces of her fear hardened into irritation. For a great laird with the power of the Devil on his side, MacLain led a decidedly severe life. There were no servants rushing about, no pot bubbling over the fire, no fire at all, for heaven’s sake.

Shivering from the cold and scowling over her empty stomach, Kenna ventured toward the small door set next to the hearth. Pray God there was a kitchen there, complete with fire and food. She could not face life with monsters without something warm in her belly.

Her perseverance was rewarded. In the kitchen, Kenna discovered a pot of parritch steaming in the hearth. No servants still. Perhaps the laird had called them all to his chambers to bathe and perfume him.

Laughing at the very idea of MacLain wearing perfume, Kenna retrieved a wooden bowl and spoon from a shelf and ladled out a generous helping of parritch to fill her belly.

She sat at a small wood table, but after the first bite found herself nervously glancing between the doorway that led to the hall and the smaller door that likely led to a garden. How vulnerable it felt, sitting here, waiting for a stranger to stumble upon her.

Kenna grabbed up her bowl and carried it with her to wander the hall. There was not much to see in the huge square room. One large table sat before the cold hearth. Four benches were pulled ’round it. An old claymore hung above the mantel, and two tapestries flanked it. The bright colors of the pictures told her nothing, though, aside from the fact that some long-ago ancestor had greatly enjoyed hunting stag. And perhaps that the wife had resented the time he spent hunting.

There was the arched opening that led to the stairway and on the opposite side of the hall, another opening to a room that looked to be a chapel. Kenna was hardly surprised to see it empty. She swallowed another large bite of parritch and headed toward the last point of interest: the heavy, iron-studded door at the front of the hall.

The bolt hadn’t been thrown, so when she tugged the door open, she expected to see bright daylight, but she found the orange glow of a setting sun instead. It bounced off the birch trees that had been allowed to crowd into the flat yard. The lack of servants had extended to groundskeeping, it seemed. Only a few stones remained exposed in the bailey floor. The rest was grass and tamped dirt.

If she hadn’t seen people here already, she’d assume the place deserted.

Had she dreamed it all? Everything? That seemed more likely than not, considering the memories.

But someone had made this parritch. And someone had brought her here. Someone with fangs and a bonny smile. Surely those two things shouldn’t go together.

Kenna propped herself against the edge of the doorway and watched the light turn from orange to red to dusky violet. She was just scraping the last of the oats from the bowl when she spied a hooded figure come around the corner of the keep. It moved close to the edge of the castle wall, like an animal comforted by the nearness of shelter.

She felt a bit like a wild animal herself, frozen to the spot and hoping not to be spotted. But it was futile. The thing was headed right toward her.

Suddenly, its head lifted and dark eyes locked onto hers.

A girl. Kenna blinked, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure why she thought the person was female. But there was something ineffably feminine in the small mouth and delicate bones of the face. Beyond that, she could have been a boy. Her black hair was shorn close and her sickly pale skin offered no hint at vanity.

“Good even’,” Kenna said, because she could think of nothing else.

The girl watched her for a long moment, scowling, and the scowl identified her as the servant who’d held the horse that morning. Kenna had thought her a boy at the time. Without a word, the girl walked on, right past Kenna, as if she hadn’t intended to enter the door. She looked angry, as if she wanted Kenna gone. Because Kenna added to her work, or was there another reason?

“If you’re thinking of escape, I’d wait till morning,” a deep voice rumbled from behind her shoulder.

Kenna dropped the bowl and whirled around with hands held high. They bounced harmlessly off MacLain’s chest. Her little slap neither hurt nor offended him, it seemed. He merely inclined his head.

“You slept well, I hope, Mistress Kenna?”

“Aye,” she croaked. “And you?”

“I admit to a bit of restlessness, worrying over you.” He smiled and knelt to retrieve her bowl and spoon. “I see you’ve broken your fast.”

“Yes, I-I apologize. There was no one about and I…”

“Will you sit with me while I break mine?”

What could she say? No, I prefer to stay here and watch the moon rise? But it seemed wrong to dine with a monster.

He decided the question by offering his arm and another of those smiles. Kenna gingerly put her hand on his, surprised when he flinched slightly at her touch.

“Are you hurt, Laird MacLain?”

“Nay, nothing like that.”

And what could that mean? She glanced toward him to find his jaw tense, but he said nothing more. She’d never been much for subtlety. “What is it, then?”

He looked down, frowning, and seemed to study her for a moment. Then he shrugged and stared straight ahead. “I was watching you, standing there, and I was thinking of our kiss, and of how I admire you.”

Oh. “Well, I…”

“And then you turned and I saw the look in your eyes.”

“What look?”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “The look that sees me for what I am, Mistress Kenna. The truth is not always easy to bear.”

She didn’t know what to say. He’d been thinking of their kiss? Kenna ducked her head. It had been a lovely kiss, soft and hot, and she’d been thinking of it herself before. Before.

He was a beast, and yet he’d been the first man in years to treat her as a woman, as a person.

When they reached the kitchen, Laird MacLain waved her toward the table and served himself. Her husband would never have done that. He’d expected to be cared for by all and sundry. But the laird himself retrieved his own bowl and scooped up parritch as if it were a natural occurrence.

He took the next seat at the square table, his left knee jutting out toward her. As he ate, Kenna found herself sneaking glances at his leg. Crisp bronze hairs dusted the length of his lower leg, more sparsely on his calf than on his shin. Muscles bulged, as sharp as cut rock beneath his skin. She could just see the bottom of his knee beneath the dark edge of his plaid and was suddenly overwhelmed with an urge to touch it. To lay her hand on his bare skin and feel his flesh jump at her touch.

Her husband had often teased her about her physical appetite. Stronger than any man’s, he’d said. And he’d been right. She’d loved that part of married life, and she’d missed it after his death. Until she’d grown too tired to miss it.

But now her fingers itched to smooth over those crisp hairs and listen for the shock of his indrawn breath.

Kenna fisted her hands tightly in her lap. “How can you possibly be fifty years old?”

“I’m not,” he answered. “I’m past seventy.”

“Good God! But you look so…”

He flashed a smile. “Bonny?”

“Bonny? No, I wouldn’t say bonny. Not at all.”

“Oh.” He looked a bit crestfallen at that, and Kenna couldn’t help but smile.

“I was going to say braw, Laird MacLain. You’re a bit too big for bonny.”

“Really?”

The smile was back, and Kenna had to remind herself that sometimes his mouth held fangs.

“Big and braw, did you say?” He looked exceptionally pleased with himself, just as any man would.

“Aye. Big and braw…and terribly old.”

MacLain slapped a hand over his heart with a grimace. “Och, lassie. Such cruelty in a wee babe.” His plaid rode up a bit, exposing an inch of his thigh as it flexed with the movement. A bonny sight despite her previous words.

And what the devil was she doing thinking such things?

The world sat heavily and suddenly on her shoulders. Her life had been tossed high in the air and she was flailing aimlessly. Flailing, indeed. Tumbling toward the ground and thinking of this man’s legs?

“Laird MacLain, when can I go home?”

His eyes dropped to the empty bowl and he set his spoon carefully inside. “After I’ve hunted down Jean Montrose.”

“You said you’d been after him for fifty years.”

“Aye.” He looked up to her, regret clear in her eyes, and Kenna knew this was worse than she’d allowed herself to imagine.

She shoved up to her feet. “What of me, then? What of my life?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I canna stay here forever in this godforsaken place!”

“I ken that. I’ll do my best to find him quickly. He’s a foul-tempered rat. He’ll try for revenge before going to ground.”

“A fortnight,” she muttered. “I shall give you a fortnight to find him. He’ll have forgotten me by then, surely.”

“A man who lives for hundreds of years does not forget things so easily, Kenna. It isn’t safe.”

“And this is?” She threw a hand out, trying to encompass his whole world into her scorn, but suddenly found that she was pointing toward a dour-looking Mrs. McDermott. Kenna quickly dropped her hand. “Good even’, Mrs. McDermott.”

The woman sniffed and shuffled to the hearth.

“Pack two days’ worth of food,” MacLain said. “We’re off before the moon rises.”

Kenna snapped her chin up to meet his eyes. “We? Me?”

“Aye.”

She shook her head in confusion. “Am I to help you find Jean, then?” She’d do what she could, but truly her belly trembled at the thought.

The MacLain rubbed a hand over his face as if he’d already spent two full days on a horse. “Nay. We’re going to meet the king.”

“That makes no sense! Why would the king wish to see me?”

“He doesn’t. He wishes to see me and I canna leave you here, not with Jean free. So we go together.”

“But…” She wanted to sputter out a protest, but what could she say? Leave me here in your cave of a castle?

“If you’ve anything needs doing, do it,” he muttered. Had she thought him charming before? “I can only travel by night, so there’s no time for gnashing your teeth.”

“Gnashing!” she snapped, but she spoke to his back. By the time she’d drawn enough air to yell, Mrs. McDermott was her only companion.

“Humph,” the old woman sniffed. Kenna had no idea if her displeasure was directed at Kenna, MacLain, or both, but she’d learned from her grandmother that one couldn’t win an argument with a woman that close to death, so she gathered up her pride, set her chin, and pretended she had things to pack.

“My apologies,” Finlay muttered as he approached Kenna. “I had to bid farewell to the cattle.” She stood with arms crossed, a plaid pulled low over her brow. The same plaid he wore, and it moved him to see it so dark against her pale skin.

One of her pretty eyebrows rose. “You really say good-bye to your cows?”

“No. Not really.”

“Oh!” Shocked realization widened her eyes. “I…see.”

He’d meant to lead the horse and leave Kenna be. He really had. But each time he moved into the horse’s vision, it shied away in panic, eyes rolling. “Damned idiot beast,” he cursed. Now that it had rested, it remembered its terror of his kind. Likely it could smell the cow’s blood on him as well, though he’d rinsed his mouth with whisky afterward.

“Can I give you a hand up, lass?” He cupped his hands, standing well back of the horse’s line of sight to boost her up. She accepted his help gracefully, though he could see by the tight set of her mouth that she was angry or disgusted or both. Likely both.

But as he tossed his leg over and settled in behind her, his body didn’t worry over her state of mind. It thrilled at her warm curves, sending sparks of approval chasing up his spine. She is warm and soft and lovely, it crooned. And she was.

The blood he’d drunk had been meant to hold some of his lust at bay, but he might as well have filled his belly with goat’s milk. His fangs began to ache the moment her round bottom pressed between his thighs. Finlay clenched his eyes shut and took a deep breath. It didn’t help. As a matter of fact, it hurt quite a lot.

“If it wouldn’t offend you, laird, I’d prefer to ride astride. My spine still aches from that last ride.”

“Aye!” he answered too fast. “’Tis a grand idea.”

If her hip weren’t pressed quite so snugly to his cock, perhaps he could think of something other than tossing up her skirts. She shifted immediately, swinging her leg around and wiggling her skirts into place. When she finally sighed and settled back, Finlay’s eyes nearly popped out. Now it felt as if he were riding her instead of the horse. Her thighs pressed all along the length of his now, from hip to knee. The cheeks of her bottom cushioned his pelvis. And if his cock got any harder, surely she would feel it pressing along the cleft of her arse.

Ah, Jesus.

He cleared his throat hard enough that she jumped against him. “Right, then,” he croaked. “Are your feet covered? I’ll have Mrs. McDermott bring another cloak if you need.”

“Nay. I’m warm.”

God, yes, she was warm. He sneaked his arms around her waist and urged the mount forward, his hips tilting forward with the movement. Pleasure heated his skin as they rocked together with each step of the horse.

For a half mile or so, he was so absorbed in his own torment that he almost felt alone. Foolish, considering the source of his pain. But as they passed the burned stumps of wood that had once been a village, Finlay scolded himself for his distraction and took a deep breath to clear his mind.

Instead of clarity, he found a brightness that struck him like lightning. “Oh,” he breathed.

“What is it?” Kenna asked, her voice a bit rough around the edges. Rough, because she was aroused. As aroused as he was. He could smell the slippery desire of her sex as clear as if he were nestled between her legs.

If he let his hand fall an inch to her thigh, would she shiver and sigh? Would she lean her head against his shoulder and let her thighs relax? By God, he could slip his hand beneath her skirts so easily. Make her moan. Bring her to her peak right here.

He lay the edge of his hand carefully on her thigh…and his fangs descended.

Good God, they’d never done that unless he’d willed them to. He glanced at her neck where the plaid had dipped down, and he knew he’d bite her, full belly or not. He’d run his tongue along the line of her neck, and then he’d open his mouth against her skin and scrape his fangs over that pulsing vein.

A shudder stretched his spine. She smelled so good that her taste must be a banquet meant for gods. He couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine the hot flow of her essence flooding his mouth.

“MacLain?” she whispered.

“Aye, lass?” Her neck was so close now. Only an inch away. And her arse was a snug furrow rubbing against his cock.

“Um…Why does…Why does the king wish to see you? Are you in trouble?”

The king? She wished to speak of politics? He stared at her sweet white neck. So close. She’d feel pleasure if he bit her, especially if he aroused her first. More than she was already aroused, that is.

Finlay laid his hand flat on her thigh and closed his eyes at the tiny hitch in her breath.

“Laird MacLain,” she said on a rush.

“Aye, lass,” he murmured, stroking his thumb across the rough wool of her skirt. All he had to do was dip his chin and his lips brushed the hot skin of her neck.

“You!” she yelped, jerking forward so that her back no longer curved into his chest. “You didna answer my question!”

She tugged the plaid forward so that he could no longer see her neck, but her hips were pushed back even more firmly against him. She jerked away, his brain tried to explain as his hips urged him to rock against her. She does not want you.

But there was no question that she did want him. Her body made that clear. His mind eked out a bit of clarity from the cloud of need. She does not want to want you. And that was the last word. For now.

“What—?” His voice was a growl when he tried to speak, so Finlay had to pause to clear the lust from his throat. He tried again after exhaling very carefully. “What question was that, Mistress Kenna?”

“W-why does the king wish to see you if he does not know of your…truth?” Her breathlessness was small comfort, but it soothed his pride, at least. My God, she was responsive, as needful as he was, if not more cautious. As cautious as she should be. Canny lass.

Still, Finlay wasn’t so burdened with caution, and he needed a distraction. Talking about Stirling and the king just might be the thing.

“There are rumors about me at court. They say I can bend any man to my will.”

“Can you?”

“Not truly.”

She twisted suddenly toward him, looking over her shoulder. “Why do you sound…Oh. I see. Your, uh, teeth are…down.”

“They are,” he said, relieved that she could not see the flush creeping up his face. “Sorry.” Finlay closed his eyes and pulled them in with a grimace.

“Does that hurt?”

“Only—” Realizing what he was about to say, Finlay changed course. “Only sometimes.”

“You’re not…”

Painfully aroused?

“…thirsty?”

“Och, no. I shan’t bite you unless you want me to.”

“Want you to? Who would want that?”

“Er…Women.”

“Why?” she scoffed.

Should he tell her the truth? That his bite could bring her to her peak faster than another man’s tongue? “It is considered extremely pleasurable.”

“To be bitten? You must be mad. I wager you’ve never been bitten.”

“On the contrary.” She twisted toward him again and he flashed her a smile.

“Not by another man?”

“Oh, no. Not by a man.”

Lips parted, she gaped at him. “There are women like you?”

“Aye.”

“And they are your, um, lovers?”

Finlay’s enjoyment in teasing her fell away for a dark, cold moment. He pushed back at the memory, slamming it shut like a door. “They have been in the past, yes.”

“I see.” Her body slowly twisted back to face front. “Is that girl your lover?”

Finlay shook his head. “What girl?”

“The girl who works in your stables.”

“Gray?” he asked, half laughing. “She’s my manservant.”

“She’s a woman!”

He cocked his head, thinking. Perhaps Gray had been a woman once, but not anymore. Not if she had any say about it. “She is a girl, I suppose. I found her in Germany, living in a cellar. She does not like to be touched, Kenna.”

“Oh,” she responded quietly.

“She is like me, but she was turned too young and…used. By a whole family of vampires, you see.”

“Och, that’s awful. How old is she?”

“I’m not sure. Nearly a century old, I think. I found her about twenty years ago.”

A shiver racked her body, and Finlay realized that her shaking didn’t affect him now. The talk of Gray had successfully tamped down his arousal. Even now he was haunted by the memories of that cellar, and of Gray, chained and silent and as dead as a living thing could be. He still didn’t like to think how close he’d come to missing her in the corner, though perhaps she’d have been relieved to starve to death there in the dark.

The horse sidestepped suddenly, as if it had been startled. Finlay held up a hand and swung down, handing the reins to Kenna. He silently stepped back, moving away from the horse so that it wouldn’t bolt, then he drew a deep breath. He smelled not blood and cool flesh as he’d feared, but dank fur and urine. A wolf perhaps, marking its territory. Listening closely, he heard the faint rustle of brush far away and then farther still. There was no danger, unless the beast led a pack back toward them.

Trying to hum a soothing noise deep in his throat, Finlay moved back toward the horse, willing it not to startle. Though it shifted nervously, it stayed still as he remounted behind Kenna.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Not Jean,” he answered simply, and she nodded, needing to hear no more than that.

It had been a very long time since she’d been so aroused, and Kenna had forgotten how singularly distracting it could be. And she couldn’t escape it, not with Laird MacLain’s body wrapped so thoroughly around hers. Even past her skirt and his plaid, she’d felt the ridge of his arousal against her. It felt exactly like a normal man’s, as did his hard thighs and hot arms and wide, solid chest behind her.

Normal, yes, but all of him very, very large.

But he wasn’t just another man, and she had to remind herself of it every ten seconds or so. Yes, he had a lovely mouth. And yes, his long fingers made her think of lovely things, but he had fangs. Fangs he wanted to bite her with, apparently.

She wasn’t as scared of that as she should be. And the longer she stayed in his arms, the less frightening he seemed. “How long before we reach Stirling?”

“Hopefully we’ll be there by daybreak. We’d best be.”

“Why?”

“I canna travel by day. We are night creatures. The light blinds us. You should remember that if we become separated. Jean cannot see in the daylight, and the sun will easily burn his skin.”

“Oh.” Well, she had the opportunity to ask the question that had been haunting her for miles. “If I were, um, bitten, would I become like you?” she blurted out. She could have sworn that she felt his gaze fall to her neck again.

“Nay. It can be done, as it was done to me, but it takes purpose. Nothing so simple as a single bite.”

“I see.” The silence seemed too fraught with meaning as she wondered if he knew why she’d ask. Not because of Jean, but because of the vampire whose hand rested even now on her thigh. “Thank you for answering my questions, Laird MacLain,” she blurted out.

He only grunted in answer, but did his fingers spread wider over her thigh? He had to rest his hand somewhere, of course, and her waist would be no better, for she’d spend her time tracking any movement of his thumb, wondering if he meant to brush a touch against the underside of her breast.

Kenna’s nipples tightened at the thought.

His quiet voice startled her. “Will you call me Finlay?”

“Finlay? Why?”

“’Tis my name.”

“Well, I gathered that.” Finlay. It fit him, somehow.

“’Tis my name and no one’s called me it in fifty years.” His words were so careful that she knew he was saying something important.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because,” he answered simply, pausing as if that were all he would say. “Because they’re all dead.”

The night seemed too dark of a sudden. Perhaps a cloud had passed over the bare light of the new moon, or perhaps it was the emptiness of his words.

“But the legends say that your father and your grandfather and—”

“Nay, ’tis only me. ’Tis always me, Kenna.”

“But…” But that was horrible. He’d lived in that empty place for fifty years? “Laird MacLain—” she started, and felt him flinch behind her.

“Finlay,” she corrected, “what happened to the rest of your family, your clan? There must have been others before.”

“Aye. We were a small enough clan, but we were fierce and proud. As to what happened…” She felt him roll his shoulders behind her, his spine giving in with a faint pop. “I bear the blood of sixty-two souls on my hands, my father’s blood included.”

“But you could not have killed them!” Her strange conviction made no sense, but she felt so sure of him.

“I may as well have. But it doesna matter now. After I kill Jean Montrose I’ll be done.”

“Done?” she whispered. His hand had left her leg and now her thigh was cold. “Done with what?”

She held her breath, waiting. His answer was important, though she couldn’t say why. So she held her breath and listened carefully for an answer that didn’t come. In the end, he only shrugged, and a cold chill swept down her body.

That place he lived in might be called Castle MacLain, but it was no home. It was a place where he slept. She thought of his time at the inn where he sat and waited. He spoke to no one, never tapped a foot when the piper struck up playing. He had only ever waited, his eyes on the door. Waiting for it to be done.

“Will you live forever?” she asked.

“Nay. A few hundred years, I gather.”

“And can you be killed?”

“Are you planning to rid yourself of me, lassie? Well, it won’t be easy, but it’s hardly impossible. I’ve got to bleed out quickly, ye ken? A knife to the heart or across the throat will do it. But I’d prefer you use your knowledge against Jean and not me.”

“Aye,” she whispered. “Of course.”

“Enough of that, now, or you’ll have bad dreams. Tell me about your marriage. You must have still been in your cradle when you married.”

She was so surprised by the sudden charm in his voice that she laughed. “Are you trying to flatter me into changing the subject?”

“Perhaps. Now tell me of your husband.”

“My husband,” she murmured, settling back against his chest. “I met him when I was seventeen and we were married within the month. My family did not approve and so we depended on his. He was very handsome and funny, and lazy as the day was long. We were happy for a while, and then we were not, and then he was dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

She felt his chin settle on her shoulder and sighed with contentment. “I was young and foolish, a common enough condition. Did you never marry?”

“Nay. I was young and foolish as well, but more interested in falling in love with as many women as I could, preferably several at once.”

“Ah, yes. An even more common ailment among young men.”

“I was quite afflicted.”

She smiled, turning her head toward his chin. “I can’t really imagine.”

“Ha. Neither can I. Not anymore. Now I cannot even charm an old widow trapped between my thighs for miles at a time.”

“Oh, goodness.” She laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth as the sound echoed through the trees.

“It’s all right,” he said. “There’s no one about.”

And so Kenna laughed, loud and long, and wondered when she’d last done so.

Chapter Four

“Try your best not to speak with anyone,” Finlay murmured as the gates of the castle came into view. Dawn glimmered on the horizon. “Once we are shown to our rooms, you must remain there until I come for you. You cannot trust anyone.”

“Come now. It can’t be so bad as all that. My mother dreamed of being invited to court.”

“Kenna, they are threatening to charge me with witchcraft. They would rather I be burned than walk free of their web.”

“Witchcraft? What is it you can do?”

“I am quite good at persuading people to my point of view.”

She shook her head. “You implied that already. How do you do it?”

A sleepy-eyed soldier watched them as they rode up the hill. “Later, Kenna.” He tucked her cloak more carefully over her legs, mindful of the number of soldiers they’d be passing. She’d rearranged herself to sit aside before they’d entered the town, but she’d grimaced in pain as she’d done so. He’d see her tucked into bed before he presented himself to the king.

“You willna…?” he started, then paused to wonder if he should ask. She’d seemed to accept him, but then she’d not had much choice alone in his castle. “You willna tell them the truth?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’ve made clear you think me a beast, Kenna. A monster cursed by the Devil himself.”

She didn’t answer for a long while, and Finlay held his breath, waiting for her response.

“I believe that you’re cursed,” she finally said, her voice low as the breeze. “But ’tis clear to me now that you’re not so different from other men.”

Finlay pulled his chin back. What did that mean? He opened his mouth to press her further, but then they were passing through the outer gates under the careful watch of eight armed soldiers.

“Laird Finlay MacLain,” he announced to the two soldiers who stepped in front of the mount. “Here at the request of the king.”

The soldier on the left glanced to his side and must have received a signal, because he waved them on toward the inner gate. They were stopped once more, and then they were through.

He felt Kenna shift in the saddle as a boy rushed forward to grab hold of the bridle.

“Finlay,” she whispered. “I’m not sure I can.”

“It’s all right. I’ve got you.” He jumped down and eased her slowly to the ground, aware that her weight rested heavy on his hands.

“Are you not the least bit stiff?” she muttered.

“Nay.” He glanced toward the east. “But my eyes are beginning to burn, if that soothes your pride.”

“Oh!” She stood a little straighter, though he clearly felt the way her muscles stiffened and twitched. “We must get you inside.”

The worry in her voice made him smile. “I’ll survive. Would you like me to carry you?”

“Of course not!” Her outrage gave Kenna the last bit of strength she needed to stand on her own, but she moved slowly as they followed a servant inside and were shown upstairs to a small room. With one small bed.

“I canna pass you off as my wife, I’m afraid.”

She shrugged. “I understand. It’s not such a hardship to be known as your leman. An elevation from serving wench, I’d say.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, lass.”

“You would.”

He left her to her privacy for a moment and hunted down some hot food. Not easy at this early hour, but there was fresh bread and warm mead, at least. The closed shutters of their chambers provided all the protection he needed from the sun, as they faced north and couldn’t have coaxed much light if they tried. After the hurried meal, Kenna slumped with weariness.

“The king won’t receive me for hours, at least. We should sleep.”

With only a mildly concerned glance at the bed, Kenna nodded. He tried his best not to anticipate anything other than sleep. That alone seemed a fine enough pleasure at the moment.

He laid his claymore on the floor within reach and Kenna took the other side. But there wasn’t much of a “side” to the narrow frame. When he stretched out on the straw ticking, his front pressed against her back in several interesting places.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but Kenna raised a hand to wave his apology aside.

“We’ve been closer than this for hours.”

Yes, but they hadn’t been in a bed. Did she not know the difference?

He’d grown used to the smell of her hair on their journey, but now he was aware of it again, the scent tempting him to bury his face in the nape of her neck and breathe. The same scent as her skin, only warmer.

Closing his eyes, he tried not to think of her fragrance. Or her plump bottom pressed against his groin. Or the way his knees fit so close behind hers.

“Kenna,” he whispered, smoothing back a lock of hair from her face. His fingers memorized the feel of her cheek beneath them.

“Mm?”

“If I’m not here when you wake, don’t venture out. Wait for me.”

“Mm-hm.”

He watched his fingers stray down to the soft skin behind her ear. She was nearly asleep. If he kissed her there, would she even notice? It would gain him nothing but aching, but Finlay couldn’t resist. Her scent tugged at him, swelling more than just his cock. Despite everything she’d been through in the past twenty-four hours, she was still so strong and steady. A mate he could be proud of, if only his life were fit for her. It wasn’t.

He stretched forward, letting his breath touch her ear. Kenna didn’t move. She didn’t protest. But he knew she wasn’t asleep after all, for her breath hitched. He waited two heartbeats, then three. Finally he shifted the smallest amount and his mouth touched that spot, the bare skin just behind the shell of her ear.

He pressed his lips there and drew in her scent, holding it in his lungs as long as he could. Her heart sped, pounding until he could hear the individual thumps of the blood rushing in and out, in and out. The life of her, pulsing below his mouth.

His fangs stretched, but he ignored them with only a small bit of difficulty. She was tired. Exhausted.

But it seemed she did know the difference between a horse and a bed. Her body needed no more than that small kiss to rouse itself and call to him. Finlay lay back and let her be, but the scent of her quick arousal followed him deep into sleep.

Kenna woke to the slamming of a door. “Oh!” she gasped, disoriented by the pale blur that surrounded her.

“I’m sorry,” MacLain’s voice said. “I didna mean to startle you.” Part of the blur shifted, and Kenna realized he’d pulled the bedcurtains around her before he’d left.

“Have I slept too long?”

“Nay. The king willna see me. He’s making a point, I believe.” The anger in his voice raised the hairs on her arms.

“What will we do?”

“We’ll wait till the morning. If his man refuses me again, I’ll have no choice.”

She shook her head, still muddled by too much sleep in the middle of the day. “What do you mean?”

“I must find Jean. I canna lose him again.” He gave her a hot look. “I canna.”

“You’ll defy the king?”

“On the contrary. I will see him. And I’ll show him the skill he’s so eager to witness.”

Kenna started to nod and then found herself shaking her head. “I don’t understand any of this, Finlay.”

His eyebrows twitched up at the sound of his name. Then he nodded and sat hard on the mattress. “I ken how strange this must be to you. You’re verra brave.”

“I’m verra confused!” And she was. She did not know whether she should run from him or pull him down upon her. Each time he touched her, she burned with want and pleasure. That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t. “Why must you kill Jean?”

“Because he’s a monster.”

“But why you?”

His head bowed and he sat quietly, not even breathing as far as she could tell. She watched him, noticing the fine white leine he wore and the silver pin that held his plaid in place. His hair was neatly combed and his jaw freshly shaven. He even wore stitched stockings that hugged his calves.

“I met him here,” he said softly. “Him and his band of Frenchmen. I was nae more interested in politics then than I am now. But I liked the women here, you understand. I was twenty-two and I cared for little but women and whisky.”

“Aye. As most young men do.”

“And the women with Jean, they were beautiful and verra…wicked.”

Kenna felt her face flush as she nodded. A mixture of embarrassment and jealousy warmed her skin.

“And when he suggested we all retire to MacLain Castle for a spell, it seemed a grand idea. My father remained at court, so he had no idea what was happening.”

“What was happening?” she whispered.

MacLain shrugged and she watched his face grow pale. “Jean liked it there. It was secluded. The people were…unsophisticated. And I was…I don’t know. I entertained him, I suppose. So they turned me. I’m not even sure when.”

“What do you mean?”

“They took turns draining me of blood and feeding me their own.”

“That’s how it’s done?”

“Aye. It takes a few days, but I’m not even sure when I stopped being human and became a vampire. They’d turned the castle into a…den. It was endless blood and sex and whisky and opium. The women simply lay about naked, eager to take on any man who wanted them. I lived like an animal for weeks, Kenna, blind with the pleasures they lay before me.”

She felt horror and disgust and fear. What kind of a man could turn his ancestral home into a harem?

“And then my father returned.” He said the words as if that were the final line of the story. As if it had ended there.

“But what happened? What happened when your father returned?”

Taking a deep breath, he lifted his bowed head and stared straight ahead. “I heard him shouting, but the woman I was with pulled me back down to her and I let myself forget him. When I woke in the evening, everyone was gone.”

“Who? The vampires?”

“Everyone. I was alone. I wandered the castle and found no one.”

Kenna clutched the bed linens closer to her chest. “Where were they?”

“Dead,” he said softly. “My clan was dead. As the weeks had passed, they’d fed on them or killed them outright. Left the bodies in a pile behind the bailey wall so as not to be bothered by the stink. My father’s fresh corpse was at the top of the heap.”

Sickness rolled through her belly. She pressed a fist to her mouth to hold back a groan.

“I was feasting and rutting and filling my gut with blood while my people were being slaughtered. Day by day. My family. Everyone. I didn’t even notice.”

“Finlay,” she started, but he cut her off.

“So that is why Jean must die, and why I must be the one to do it. He’s the last one left. I’ve killed them all. Even the women.”

She saw his jaw clench at that, and wondered what that would do to a man like him. To kill women. Women who’d been in his bed. What would it do to any man, to know he’d allowed the murder of his entire family?

When he pushed suddenly to his feet, Kenna jumped.

“We must dress for dinner,” he said, reaching toward the bedside table for a package she hadn’t seen. “I’ve a dress for you. I’ll leave you to your privacy.”

Though she held out her hands, he set the twine-wrapped material on the edge of the bed, avoiding her touch. Before she could ask him anything more, he slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind him.

He was a demon and a murderer…and he was her only protection in this place. Kenna’s mind spun with helpless confusion.

Chapter Five

“Stay by my side,” he said as Kenna laid her hand gingerly on his arm. Her mind still shook with dismay at the story he’d told her an hour before. As they descended toward the roar of the great hall of Stirling Castle, she wanted to pull him aside and pelt him with more questions about the horror he’d lived through. But more than that, she wanted to know nothing more about it, ever.

And when she stole glances at MacLain, she wished she’d never asked. His face had changed. It was stiff now, as if something in him would break if he smiled. Fifty years had fallen away with the telling of the story, and now he seemed to be back in that place of death and guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. He glanced down at her impassively, as if he knew what she spoke of and had no interest.

Then they were in the hall, and Kenna’s eyes were too busy taking in the crowd to watch MacLain.

She’d never seen so many people. Hundreds of people, all of them dressed in bright layers of clothing and furs and jewels.

When she’d unfolded the length of blue velvet he’d left her, she’d been thankful. Now she was doubly so. Only the servants wore brown or gray, and the serving girls here looked even more harried than she had been at the inn.

As she watched, a fat gentleman with gold-puffed sleeves reached for a young girl passing. Her mouth became an O of shock as he pulled her into his lap and pressed his face into the crook of her neck.

“Do not let yourself drift away,” MacLain said, bending low to warn her, and Kenna nodded. The man let the girl go after a taste of her flesh, but the night was early yet. She did not want to see what would happen to the serving women after the ale had been flowing for hours.

The atmosphere grew calmer as they moved closer to the central dais. Here, the people were watchful and more reserved, their eyes shifting over the crowd with sharp interest. These people meant to be near the king, and they had purpose.

Kenna saw eyes slide toward MacLain and widen. He was recognized, but no one approached to offer a friendly welcome.

He stopped and let his gaze skip over the tables. “There,” he said, and led her toward the far side of the hall.

They approached a table crowded with young men. Not one woman sat among them. Either they had no wives or they did not bring them to court.

“Guthrie,” MacLain said. One man glanced carelessly up, his fingers idly stroking the wide arch of rubies that nestled in his puffed collar. When he saw who stood above him, he smirked.

“Laird MacLain, you’ve finally arrived.”

“Aye. I am here as an eager servant to the king, yet now he refuses to see me.”

The man cocked his head. “The king will entertain you at his leisure, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Finlay ground out. “But I’m afraid I am needed on urgent—”

“Why, Laird MacLain! Who is your lovely companion?”

She felt his body stiffen next to her, and her fingers curled into his skin in nervousness. “I present,” he growled, “my lady, Kenna Graham.”

She dipped a quick curtsy as Guthrie’s gaze swept down her. “Graham, eh? She’s enchanting.”

“Yes,” he snapped.

Guthrie smiled. “Perhaps Kenna Graham may be better at gaining access to the king than you are, Laird MacLain. She looks as if she could be much more charming.”

The man’s companions roared with laughter as Kenna flushed.

MacLain snarled. “I don’t find your statement amusing, Guthrie.”

“Oh.” The man chuckled. “That’s because I wasn’t trying for amusement. Send her to my room tonight. You’ll be in to see the king tomorrow before he breaks his fast. Will that suffice?”

A brief, hard shock of alarm jumped through her. MacLain was desperate to be on his way, after all. And she was a serving wench he’d met two days before. She clutched his arm harder. I won’t do this, she prayed. Please, I canna do this. Not this.

But who would stop it here? Who would help her? No one.

His hand curved over hers and peeled her fingers from his arm. Good Lord, would he hand her over right this moment? His fingers laced into hers.

“Guthrie?”

“Yes, Laird MacLain?” The mocking laughter faded slowly from Guthrie’s expression as he stared into MacLain’s face. A shiver jumped through his body, and he raised a hand to the back of his neck to rub hard.

MacLain leaned a little closer. “I will see the king tomorrow. Before noon. This is an urgent matter, after all.”

Frowning, Guthrie nodded. The deal was done. Kenna’s throat burned with humiliation. She would be sent to this pup’s room and forced to take him between her legs. She’d fought so hard to avoid this, and all her struggles had been for naught.

When MacLain stood straight, Guthrie shook his head and dropped his eyes immediately. But MacLain seemed to change his mind before turning away, and he stepped forward to grab the man’s chin.

“And you will not set your eyes on Kenna Graham again. Ever. Understood?”

“Aye,” the man breathed, all the color melting from his face.

Her legs were shaking as he swung her around and led her back toward the far tables.

“You won’t give me to him?” she whispered.

He could not have heard her over the din, but he shook his head all the same.

“Why?”

“You’re not mine to give, Kenna.”

“Oh. Of course.” Her relief felt strangely like hurt. “Thank you.”

“And I’d kill him before I’d let him touch you.”

She couldn’t understand the tears that sprang to her eyes, but they would not stop despite her blinking.

“We’ll have a real meal tonight at least,” he grumbled, leading her to an empty table at the very corner of the room.

“Aye,” she said as the tears slipped free and slid down her face.

“Will you—? Kenna, why are you weeping?”

“I’m not.” She sat down on the bench and ducked her head, trying to wave him toward his seat.

“Lass, what’s upset you?”

“Nothing. I only…You wanted to be on your way so badly. And I…” What had she come to in life, that she could weep with gratitude at not being treated as a worthless whore? “I expected…”

His hand touched the crown of her head, and that small touch made her breath catch and the tears fall faster. “Kenna,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down her temple and beneath her chin. “I would not have given you to him.”

She nodded, pressing her lips tight together.

“Did you think that I would?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I think I have…I fear I’ve lost all sense of myself. I cannot even recognize kindness anymore.”

“Christ, lass,” he murmured, sinking down to his haunches to meet her eyes. His fingers whispered over her cheek. “I am not kind.”

“You’ve been kind to me from the moment we met, Finlay MacLain. And I am so hard and weary that I don’t know what to do with it.”

“No,” he whispered. “I am not kind.”

“What you told me tonight…You made a mistake, all those years ago. A terrible, awful mistake. And you’ve tried to make it right. You’re not a monster.”

His fingers spread out to cup her cheek in his warmth. “You’ve no idea what I am.”

“I serve ale to dozens of men a night. Rich and poor. Young and old. I know what you are, Finlay. You’re a man, and a good one.”

“Ah, Christ, Kenna.” His words were so soft that she barely heard them. But she felt better now. Stronger. Less like a woman who expected to be used as barter.

“Sit,” she ordered him, straightening her shoulders and grieving the loss of his heat when his hand fell away. “I’m famished.”

They ate pheasant and goose and salmon, and drank fine ale, and Finlay’s face lost some of the stiffness that had broken her heart earlier. But as the stiffness left, it revealed sadness, and a lost look in his eyes when he watched the revelers that surrounded them.

Excitement had bloomed through the hall with the arrival of King James, and Kenna had hardly believed herself in his presence as the trumpets sounded. But her excitement had sloughed off as the night had worn on. It was just as she had expected, no different from the inn, except that there were more serving girls and the men expected easy submission from the women they harassed.

When the king took his leave, MacLain pulled her to her feet and escorted her back to their chambers.

“I’m sorry, I must leave you here. I must discover what the king wants of me, and I dinna wish to expose you to that…vulgarity.”

“I’ve seen it all before,” she said, but slumped with relief when he shook his head in refusal.

He loosened the laces of her dress with brusque hands, fed the small hearth until the fire roared, and then he left her alone. Despite that she’d slept half the day, Kenna was exhausted, and climbed quickly beneath the linens to warm herself.

When she realized she missed MacLain’s presence behind her, she wasn’t even surprised by her loneliness. She just hoped he’d return soon.

The sound of water woke her, trickling into her dreams. Then the crackle of new wood catching flame. And the strong smell of ale.

Kenna opened her eyes and found the flames casting stretching, shifting shadows on the wall.

The soft splash of water caught her attention, and then she saw him. Finlay MacLain stood before the fire, his back bare from the waist up. He’d loosened his plaid and removed his leine. As she watched he scrubbed a square of linen over one arm and shoulder. His muscles jumped and bulged.

Butterflies skipped over the skin of her stomach. My God. She’d admired many a bonny man in her day, but the sight of his naked back stole her breath away.

He washed his neck and beneath his arms. When he swept the linen rag over his chest, she willed him to turn and let her watch, but he cruelly faced the hearth.

“Some clod spilled ale on me,” he said into the silence.

Kenna held her breath and closed her eyes.

“Kenna, I know you’re awake.”

“Oh?” she whispered. “How?”

He took a deep breath, his back expanding. “I can hear you. And…”

“And what?” She lay in complete contentment, watching him.

“Nothing.” He laid the rag in the bowl of water and turned to reach for his leine.

Kenna gasped. By God, he was a powerful man. His chest curved with muscle. His arms bulged with it. What would it feel like to be beneath him, to feel the weight of him above her, to feel protected and surrounded by all that power?

“Kenna!” he snapped. “You canna do that.”

“Do what?” His belly was long and lean, marred only by a white scar that curved around his ribs. Her fingers twitched with the need to trace it.

“Kenna, I can…I mean to show you respect, do you ken?”

“Aye,” she answered as her eyes traced the faint path of hair that disappeared beneath the dark edge of his plaid. She’d felt his cock press against her, felt its hardness and width. Her sex tightened and pulled at her nerves.

“Damn it!” he snapped. “I can see and hear and smell far better than any man.”

“So?” He’d taken off the stockings he’d donned for his visit to the king, and even the sight of his naked feet aroused her.

“So I can…” He kicked the wooden bowl, spilling everything across the floor. “I can smell you! When your body grows slick I can taste you on my tongue, and I’m trying to ignore it and I can’t!”

He could taste her? Every time? Blood rushed so hard to her face that her skin prickled.

“And it wasn’t kindness that made me threaten Guthrie. It was selfishness. I want you for myself, and if I canna have you, at least I can keep that bastard’s eyes off you.”

She pressed a hand to her thundering heart. He wanted her. Badly. “Why…” Her mouth was so dry that she could hardly swallow. “Why can you not have me?” It was too dangerous, probably. With the fangs and his dark soul and beastly nature. It was foolish of her to even want it.

Finlay walked to the hearth and pressed both hands to the narrow stone mantel. “I want you, lass, but I canna offer more. Marriage or love. Not even bairns, as they’d be like me. So I canna have you, and it is one thing to lie in a bed beside you, burning. But it is another thing entirely to smell your body grow warm and wet for me, and tell myself I should not touch you.”

Oh. Well, that didn’t sound dangerous at all. He had been aware of her arousal every time, and still he hadn’t taken her? She’d never known a man to turn down even the most grudging offer of pleasure. “But you kissed me. At the inn.”

“’Twas just a kiss. And it nearly got you killed. Imagine what a mistake it would be to lie with me.”

His hands clutched the stone, throwing his muscles hard against his skin. The plaid had slipped a bit lower, exposing the hollow of his spine just above his buttocks. Running her tongue down his backbone seemed a grand idea at the moment. “You would hurt me?”

“Nay! Of course not! But it would not honor you, either, would it?”

“Honor,” she muttered. Honor. She had honored her husband and what had it gotten her? Nothing in the end, but loneliness and shame. She had honored her family her whole life, and they had tossed her out like rubbish after her marriage. This man had shown her more honor than any other. He’d asked for nothing in return.

“I am a widow.”

He started to shake his head, but she cut him off.

“I know what it is to lie with a man. And I know what it is to miss that. I do miss that, Finlay. I want to feel a man inside me again. I want to feel you.”

His whole body flinched as if she’d struck him, and he pushed back from the wall to pace. “Kenna, don’t. Please. I am…especially drawn to you. I willna be able to resist if you offer. And I mean to take from you, Kenna, do you not understand?”

She touched her fingertips to her neck, and his gaze flew there. When his lips parted, she saw his fangs. Sharp and long. Fear and sharp desire pulsed through her. Finlay groaned, and the sound of his need shivered against her.

“Would it…Would it cause harm? To my body or my soul?”

His face twisted, torture writ clear on his features. “Nay, but—”

“I am a woman,” she insisted, rising up and letting the bed linens fall away. “And I need, Finlay, just as much as you do.”

“Stop,” he ordered as she reached for the hem of her shift. He took a step toward her, eyes fierce, hand reaching to halt her movement. But Kenna cared nothing for caution and honor and good sense tonight. Tonight she wanted a warm body against hers and a need that matched her own. She wanted to be a woman again, and feel her body rise with pleasure.

Before he could reach the bed, she gripped the shift in her hands and pulled it over her head.

“Ah, Christ above,” he gasped, stuttering to a stop just a foot from her. He closed his eyes, but too late. She saw in the tightening of his face that her nakedness could not be shut out so easily. She slipped from the bed and took one of his large hands in her own.

“Will you lie with me tonight, Finlay? With only the honor of my invitation between us?” Though she asked the question, she forced the issue by pressing his hand to one of her breasts.

He didn’t resist, but she felt the shaking in his fingers. Kenna held her breath and waited.

He wanted. He wanted so much.

For a brief moment, Finlay thought he might be able to walk away. Somehow, he fooled himself into thinking that even the soft give of her breast beneath his fingers could not convince him. But only for one heartbeat. Then the nerves of his fingertips woke, and her skin was hot and fine and yielding. She pressed his hand closer and her breast filled the curve of his palm and pushed up against his fingers.

When he shifted his thumb, Kenna sighed, her breath puffing against his chest. And then she touched him.

She flattened her palm to his chest, spreading her fingers wide. A simple touch. And nothing close to enough.

Finlay opened his eyes and he was lost. Her body was perfect and lush. Her breasts full and firm and so pale under his roughened hands. Her hips curved out from a small waist, forming the perfect angle for his hold.

“Kenna,” he breathed as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. The bedcovers had kept her heat close, and now it soaked into him, warming more than just his skin. Something inside him thawed as he drew the fragrance of her warm body deep into his lungs. The thawing revealed pain, and Finlay felt his breath hitch.

Kenna’s hands swept over his back and down to his waist. After a deep breath, she slipped from his arms and pulled him to the bed.

He went to his knees before her. “You are a fine and lovely thing, Kenna.”

“As are you,” she whispered as she slid her hands into his hair and pulled him to her for a kiss. The taste of her swept him into another world. Nothing existed but their bodies. No past, no future, no horrors of his own making. It was just Kenna’s tongue rubbing shyly over his. Her taste, like the sun and summer, flooding through him.

They kissed until her hands began to move restlessly over his shoulders, and he couldn’t resist tasting more. First her neck, then her shoulder, then the soft rise of her breast.

She inhaled hard. He felt the thundering of her heart beneath his mouth, but he would not rush this. Not this. It would last forever if he could will it so.

He kissed down to the full roundness at the underside of her breast and felt her fingers dig into his shoulders in frustration. When he began to chuckle, Kenna growled. “You mean to tease me, then?”

“Aye,” he breathed, just before he licked a slow circle around her rose pink nipple.

Her breath hissed between her teeth.

“Aye, I mean to tease you.” He touched his tongue to the pebbled peak, wetting it just enough to draw it tighter. He circled it again.

“Oh,” she moaned. “Finlay, please.” She didn’t wait for his generosity, though. Kenna simply wound her fingers into his hair and pulled him to her.

He obliged, sucking hard at the peak until her groan turned from frustration to joy.

He’d thought her arousal enticing before. But now he was so close to her, and her sex so wet, that he soon found himself too distracted to tease any longer. Setting his hands to her thighs, he eased her legs open and dragged his mouth down her belly.

“Ah, God,” she moaned, arching back. Her thighs shook.

Had it been years for her as it had for him? It must have been. When his mouth touched her sex, she jumped as if a spark had landed on her skin.

This he could not take his time with. It seemed his mouth had watered for her taste forever, so Finlay sank his tongue deep, thrilling at the sound of her cry.

He lapped at her, swallowing her taste, then he traced the lines of her sex before settling in at that hard nub that made her sob. Her restless legs rubbed his shoulders until he curved his arms beneath her thighs to spread her wider.

“Finlay,” she breathed. “Finlay.”

What power, to feel her body shake and strain at his kiss. To hear her call his name in pleasure. Her heels dug into his back as if she could pull closer.

“I…canna…” she panted. Her thighs tightened and her moans turned to whimpers. “Please.”

And then she was screaming and shaking, her sex hot and wet against his mouth. When she quieted, he pressed kisses to her thighs and drank her in with his eyes. If this was the only time, he wanted to remember the sight of her sex, swollen with lust for him.

She had barely gotten her panting under control when she said, “More now.”

Finlay found himself grinning with delight as he rose to his feet. “More?”

“Oh, aye. More.”

“All right then, lass.” He reached for his thick belt.

Eyes gleaming, Kenna rose to her elbows and watched him, a smile starting small on her mouth before spreading wider.

“A moment,” he murmured. “It’d be a sad thing if I didn’t memorize the picture you present.”

Kenna glanced down at her naked body, her thighs still spread and open to him. “You canna embarrass me, Finlay MacLain. I’m too well pleased to care.”

“And that’s a beautiful thing.” His clumsy fingers finally freed the belt. It clunked to the ground and his plaid fell free.

“My God,” Kenna sighed. “So is that.”

She shocked him into a laugh, but her hot look soon chased his amusement away.

He’d thought his cock as hard as it could get, but her gaze proved him wrong. He throbbed as she rose to her knees and backed farther onto the bed.

“Come now, man,” she said. “I mean to ride you.”

“Lord,” he huffed, shocked despite the lust that exploded through him.

She simply cocked an eyebrow and waited. What could he do but lay himself down? He half expected her to laugh and cover her face in embarrassment, but true to her word, Kenna climbed atop him.

Her sex pressed into his throbbing cock, and when she leaned close to kiss him, her breasts brushed over his chest. Finlay curved his hand behind her neck and held her to him, her hot body hardly any weight at all atop him. She was so wet that she slipped over his shaft as she moved, setting white light flashing behind his eyes.

This was more than he’d hoped for. He’d thought he’d be able to seduce her if he put his mind to it, but he’d never imagined that she would climb atop him and take what she wanted. Though she seemed content to take naught but kisses at this moment. His hands strayed to her hips and eased her up.

“Mm,” she purred and rubbed her sex slow against him.

“You weren’t lying, lass,” he groaned. “You’ve definitely got the skills of a widow.”

Her laughter made her shake quite delightfully against him. “Wait ’til I lose my shyness, Laird MacLain.”

Her hair flew back as she pushed herself up, resting her hands against his chest. When her neck arched, Finlay became suddenly aware of his fangs, and they throbbed in response at being remembered.

Laughter forgotten, he let his gaze wander from the dark curls of her sex to her belly and breasts and pale, delicate neck. Her smile faded, and she let his hands lift her hips.

When he felt his cock notch into her sex, Finlay pushed his hips up and eased hers down. Tightness. Heat. Kenna’s body took him in. Finally. Finally.

Her nails dug into his chest. “Wait,” she breathed. “Wait.”

Wait, he told his hands. They shook with the need to defy him.

She eased up, then down again, slipping a little lower. “You’re so big,” she breathed. “Go slow.”

And how was he to control himself now? His fangs descended. He eased her up and down, up and down, until finally he slid as deep as he could go and Kenna’s panting turned to a moan.

“Yes,” she urged. “Oh, yes.” Her sex squeezed him as she raised up and then took him hard and deep.

“Jesus, lass.” He ground his teeth hard together.

“It’s been so long,” she panted. “You’ve no idea.” She rolled her hips as she moved, so that the up and down became one long movement that never ended. The constant assault of pleasure glowed through him, as if the sun shone on his body for the first time in fifty years.

It was all he could feel. The heat of her, the slide. His heartbeat filled his ears.

No, not his heartbeat. Hers. Thumping like a war drum calling up his bloodlust.

“Ah, God,” he growled.

She rode him faster, her pulse speeding to meet her excitement as he slid his hands from her hips to her breasts. He could see her pulse now, beating just beneath her jaw. Pressure built at the base of his cock. His fangs pushed out to their full length as he gently pinched her nipples.

Kenna tossed her head back, gasping. Her neck was stretched so long…

Desperate with need, Finlay wrapped his arms around her and flipped her to her back without drawing even an inch out of her body.

“Oh!” she cried, though her shock didn’t prevent her from wrapping her legs around his hips.

“If you need a man,” he muttered, “then you shall have one.” He drove deep and fast, sinking himself in her tightness.

“Aye,” she moaned, as he took her hard. “Aye.”

But the harder he had her, the more he wanted. Her heels dug into his arse, as if she wished for more, too. Her face turned away, exposing that beating place.

“Kenna,” he growled, and opened his mouth over her neck.

She tensed beneath him, as if she’d suddenly remembered that he wasn’t just a man, but he’d heard the faint scrape of his fangs against her skin, and Finlay was lost.

He sank his fangs deep, and her blood filled his mouth.

“Ah!” she screamed, her spine arching as the sound twisted from pain to ecstasy. The taste of her was pure and thick in her blood, and it washed over him, through him, into him as he swallowed. Power filled him, tightening his bollocks.

Her moaning started soft, each breath getting louder as he slowed his thrusts, drawing them out as he sucked gently at her neck. He shifted above her, so that his shaft rubbed rough against her with every draw of his mouth.

“Ah, Finlay,” she moaned. Her sex squeezed him. “Finlay.” Just as her body began to stiffen, he sank his fangs deeper, and her voice rose to a scream as her hips jerked against his. Aye. Aye, she was his.

Finlay let go of his control and followed her down into that bright oblivion, his own shout muffled by her throat. There was nothing besides Kenna. Nothing in the world but his body inside hers and her blood in his mouth.

Kenna.

As soon as the waves of pleasure abated, he gently freed her neck and let his forehead collapse to the bed beside her. It seemed to take all his strength to support his weight above her.

His body was heavier than it had been…as if something hollow had been filled up.

Chapter Six

She was the same woman she’d been the day before. She must be.

And yet she felt utterly different.

Kenna touched a hand to the sore spot on her neck, the place where Finlay had taken her blood. She should feel weak. She’d been injured. Her sex felt as tender as her neck, and she was almost certain Finlay had left bruises on her hips with his desperate hold.

But despite the loss of blood and the tender places that made themselves known when she stretched, Kenna glowed. Her body hummed. And her soul felt years younger. Nearly as young as she actually was.

She stretched again, and felt Finlay’s hand close over hers.

“Are you ill, lass?”

“Nay,” she answered with a smile, snuggling deeper into the bedcovers. She pulled his hand over her hip and felt him turn to press into her back. Ice seemed to cover her skin.

“Och!” she yelped, scooting away from him. Frightened, she swung around and pressed her hand to his chest. “Finlay, you’re frozen!”

“My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you.” His face stiffened.

“What’s the matter?” she cried.

“Nothing. We are just…I must have kicked the linens off and our flesh cools easily in the air.”

“But…” She watched as he slipped out the other side of the bed. His buttocks flexed with fascinating rhythm as he rounded the bed and approached the dead hearth. “Does that not hurt you?”

“Nay.”

He crouched to the task, and soon had a cheerful fire crackling. “I’ll warm soon enough,” he muttered. “But I must leave you regardless. The king awaits.”

“Right now?” she asked, not bothering to hide her disappointment. It seemed to cheer him, though, for his scowl turned immediately to a smile.

“I’m afraid so. But it shan’t take long.”

“No?”

He pulled on his leine, hiding his bonny nakedness. “No. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good.” She was sore, but she meant to have more of him while she could.

He began to fold his plaid around him. “I’ll send a girl with bread and ale to break your fast.”

She watched him dress, satisfaction swelling her heart. It felt good to watch a man ready himself for the day. And it felt wondrous to lounge about and sigh over the sight of him. It hadn’t been marriage itself she’d enjoyed so much, after all. The marriage had been a burden. It had been the physical pleasure that came with it that she’d loved, the feel and touch and taste of a man.

Finlay had said he could not offer her marriage, but perhaps she wanted no more than a good, long while in his bed.

“I’ll return soon,” he said, crossing the room to kiss her forehead. She considered pulling him down for more, but his eyes were already distant, thinking ahead to his audience with the king.

“Have a care,” she warned, but as he unbolted the door, his arm flexed, distracting her into a sigh. And Kenna realized she had best take care herself.

“Sire.” Finlay bowed low, leg outstretched, eyes pointed toward the ground. He could smell the fear coming off the other members of the king’s audience. They all wanted something and feared the king’s judgment. Finlay was the only one with nothing to lose.

“Laird MacLain,” the king muttered with an irritated glance toward the archway. Guthrie stood there, arms crossed and eyes glaring at Finlay. “You have not pleased me. I have had need of you these many months now, and you have declined my invitations.”

“My apologies, Sire. As you know, my clan has suffered great hardship, and I hesitated to separate myself from my home.”

“Even for your king?”

“I am here, Sire.”

“Yes.” His eyes slanted toward Guthrie. “Though I am not sure why you are suddenly filled with eagerness. I mean to enjoy your company here at court for quite a while.”

Finlay managed to bite back a curse.

“I have need of your special…strengths.”

“I have no particular strengths, Sire.”

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “On the contrary, Laird MacLain, I am quite convinced you do. I am told you live alone. How is it that a solitary man can hold his land with no mischief from his neighbors?”

“I am not alone.”

“No? Who are your clansmen, then?”

He had no answer to that. He’d had no clansmen for fifty years. No men or women or bairns. Most had been killed. The others had fled and burned their homes down behind them in an attempt to break the curse that had fallen over them.

“You’ve a pact with the Devil,” the king said.

“Nay.”

“And,” he went on as if Finlay hadn’t spoken, “you’ve a way to make men come ’round to your opinion. Guthrie, for example.”

At the edge of his vision, Finlay saw the way Guthrie’s fists twitched.

“He was adamant that I let you cool your heels. ‘He is arrogant,’ he said. ‘He has disobeyed you.’ And then this morning, he comes to attend me, insisting that I must see you immediately. He was quite urgent.”

“I spoke to him last even’.”

“Aye, you did. Quite convincingly. Yet Guthrie only responds well to obsequiousness, and you do not strike me as the type to bow your head to the likes of him.”

Guthrie’s heartbeat sped and the scent of his anger reached Finlay’s nose. Perhaps the king was a vampire, too, because he bellowed, “Leave us!” and the crowd of petitioners and courtiers snapped to attention. A moment passed, and then they all filed out. Only a guard remained, his eyes sharp and impassive all at once.

“Even if your skill was granted by Satan himself, your duty is to Scotland, Laird MacLain.”

He felt a twinge of guilt at the words. He did have a duty to his country, regardless of whether he was man or vampire.

“I canna fight England’s greed on my own. I need the support of all Scots.”

“Aye. Of course.” His guilt formed a stone in his gut. If the king asked, could he help keep the English in check? Would this be a way to help make amends for the many wrongs he’d done? Perhaps…Perhaps after he killed Jean, this would give him another purpose. A reason to keep going despite his weariness.

“The MacKenzie clan is being needlessly stubborn,” the king muttered. “I have need of more land on the coast, and they refuse to give it, even for the sake of their king.”

“The MacKenzies.” Finlay’s heart, which had begun to rouse itself with pride for his country, sank like a stone.

“Aye, and Fergus Stewart is not much better. His youngest daughter has caught the eye of my uncle. Stewart says his daughter is already promised to a cousin and he will not break the betrothal. Can you imagine? Defying his king over a fifteen-year-old girl’s supposed love? It’s damn near traitorous, I tell you.”

Finlay closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “You’d like me to convince Stewart to give his lass to your uncle.”

“Aye. But the MacKenzies first. They are here at court, so it should take little effort. I want that land, MacLain. For the sake of Scotland, of course.”

Right. Land. Alliances. Intrigue and power. Stirling Castle never changed. He could have stood here fifty years ago and had the same conversation with that king.

“And Alistair Bruce,” the king muttered. “Does he think me blind? It’s clear he’s had dealings with the Irish behind my back.”

Finlay could find no more purpose here than he’d found in the crumbling remains of his home. The king did not want him to use his powers against the English queen; James was too busy expanding his influence in Scotland.

“Sire,” Finlay said. “I’m afraid you are mistaken. I have nothing to offer you.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “You’d best reconsider, Laird MacLain. Your land may not be valuable, but it is subject to my power all the same. And it is well known that you are”—he swallowed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck—“associated with…” His sharp eyes clouded and he looked up at Finlay in confusion. “What were you saying?”

He had not wanted to do this. He’d avoided Stirling for months just so he would not feel a traitor. Still, he narrowed his eyes and pushed his thoughts straight out. “I’m afraid you were mistaken, Sire. I have no special hold over men’s minds. My presence offers no benefit for you or the crown. And while my clan is small and ragged, we have no trouble raising taxes or holding the land. You are better served to send me back to MacLain Castle.”

“I see,” he murmured. His face softened with concern. “You are right, of course. You had best return. There is never any trouble from the MacLains, which is more than I can say for half the families in Scotland.”

“Thank you, Sire,” Finlay said with a bow. It brought a man low to use his liege so. To know that a king was just a man, after all.

“Guthrie!” the king shouted. The door opened before his voice had ceased to echo. “You were wise to argue Laird MacLain’s case this morning. He has served us well at Castle MacLain, and must return as soon as he is able.”

Guthrie’s eyes widened with alarm. “Your Majesty, did he injure you?”

“Of course not, you fool. Escort him out. We are done here.”

Guthrie’s worry was so evident that Finlay could not doubt the man’s genuine affection for his king, but unfortunately that affection turned to glittering rage when he gestured Finlay toward the door.

“What did you do to him?” he hissed.

“I canna know what you mean.”

“You snuck inside his head!”

Rumors and legends could only make his life more difficult. He did not need an enemy at court. He did not need to be noticed at all. Unfortunately, he’d already twisted Guthrie’s mind once and there was a good chance it wouldn’t work again.

Finlay stopped and faced the fuming man. “If I could really control men’s minds, do you not think I would have installed myself at the king’s side? What kind of man would pass up that kind of power, Guthrie? If I could rule the king, I could rule Scotland.”

Thoughts turned behind the man’s eyes.

“You’ve seen my home, man,” Finlay insisted. “Do you really think me powerful?”

Here was a man who coveted power. Who’d dedicated his life to his king just for the chance to gather up as many scraps of influence as he could. He could understand Finlay’s desire for solitude no more than he could understand the turnings of the stars.

The surety of his expression faded, but the hostility remained.

“I do not trust you, MacLain. Neither do I like you. In fact, I rather hope that Frenchman catches up with you.”

Cold flashed over Finlay’s skin like sliding ice. “What Frenchman?” he asked, knowing full well who it was.

Guthrie’s smile was the grin of a wolf. “Have you no’ heard? He’s got only one hand, and I’d wager you had something to do with the loss of the other. He was prowling between Stirling and Larmuir two nights ago, and I gather he headed out for MacLain Castle about the time you left it. Do you think he might make it back to Stirling today?”

Gray. And Mrs. McDermott and young Rabbie. Had they obeyed the orders he’d given before leaving?

Ignoring Guthrie’s triumphant laugh, Finlay spun and hurried toward the hall, narrowing his eyes against the sunlight that trickled weakly through the small windows. If the tale was true, Jean was either at MacLain Castle or on his way to Stirling. Finlay would’ve welcomed the knowledge of a coming confrontation if not for his worry over Kenna.

He could not leave her here alone, and he could not expose her to the dangers of the night.

“Damn it,” he muttered as he bounded up the curved staircase. If they stayed here, they were simply waiting to be found. But if they left at sundown, they might find Jean standing at the gates of the castle, his sword in hand.

He pushed open the door of their chambers and found Kenna mid-pace.

“Finlay!” she cried, rushing toward him. Her outstretched arms briefly overrode his worries. Here was his woman, wrapping her arms around him. “What did the king say?”

“We’re free to leave—”

“How?”

“But there is a more dangerous problem now. Jean has been to MacLain Castle. We must go.”

The horror on her face did not stop her from drawing herself straight and offering a curt nod. “Of course. We must see to your home. Tonight—”

“Nay. We leave now.”

“Now? But…”

“We’ve no choice. I won’t be trapped here like a rat when the sun sets, not with your life at risk.”

“But, Finlay, you said—”

“Come now. Let’s gather our things. You will be my eyes, and we’ll find shelter before sunset. God willing, Jean will be unawares. I’ll circle back to Stirling if it’s safe to leave you.”

Kenna raised her hands, lips parting as if she would speak in earnest, but then her arms fell, and she stood quiet.

“All will be well,” he whispered, touching his fingers to her precious cheek. “I will see you safe, Kenna Graham.”

“I am not worried over me, you great lummox!”

“No?” Even his urgency to be gone could not keep him from smiling down at her. “Will you keep me safe then, lass?”

“Aye, unless I kill you first.”

When he saw the tears in her eyes, Finlay pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips to the top of her head. She felt right there, her head resting just beneath his chin, her hands clutching his back. And her scent glowing ’round him like a sun. Only now she smelled of his body, too.

His lust was no longer a flat and bitter thing. This need for Kenna was pulsing and warm and growing so fast that it hurt his chest.

“Come now,” he murmured. “Let us find this wretch and be done with it.”

Chapter Seven

He sat behind her on the horse again, just as he always did. But now it was different, feeling his body pressed against her after it had pressed so thoroughly into her the night before. The rocking of the horse was another reminder of what they’d done. Her sensitive sex pulsed with the movement.

But there was guilt, too. Finlay was hunched over her, his plaid pulled low over his eyes, his hands hidden beneath the wool to keep the sun from his skin. He was suffering and she could think of nothing but having him again.

Thank God the sky was thick with clouds. Even in the weak light, his eyes streamed tears. Two hours had passed, and he’d grown quiet. Kenna tried to think of some way to distract him…and herself.

“I canna understand why the king let you leave after he was so eager to get you to Stirling.”

“He changed his mind.”

“Why?”

He did not answer for a long while, as if he were thinking of what to say. As if he might lie. Kenna squared her shoulders and waited for the sound of falsehood. Her husband had lied to her often enough, so why did she feel shocked?

He shifted behind her, his thighs tensing. “What the king accused me of…It is true, to an extent. I can influence men with my mind. It’s one of our powers.”

He’d hinted as much, but she still felt a shock. “How do you do it?”

When he shrugged, his body rubbed against hers. “I think very hard what I’d like them to do. Like glaring at someone, I suppose, only with your mind.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, that’s all. But ’tis not as powerful as it seems. It only works on a person once or twice and then…nothing.”

“Have you done it to me?” She gestured frantically and heard a hiss of pain behind her. She turned to find Finlay tugging his plaid more thoroughly around him. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve a right to be shocked. And no, I havena done it to you, but only because you’re very strong willed. When I came to the inn, I tried to be sure that no one noticed me, that they wanted never to notice me, but it did not take with you, Kenna. You kept looking at me.”

“Well, I thought you verra fine to look at.”

His laughter rumbled into her. “I can’t deny I was rather pleased with my failure. And even if I’d meant to make you obey, I didna want to push hard enough to hurt you.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Strong willed or not…I think Jean did that to me. I felt…I felt that I could not resist him.”

His arm tightened around her. “He didna care if he hurt you, but I’d not hurt you for the world.”

Ah, God. Her heart clenched so hard that pain sparked through her chest. He’d said he had nothing to offer her, but his consideration was enough for now. His consideration, and affection, and, yes, his kindness. Kenna sneaked her hand beneath the plaid to lay it on his. His fingers laced into hers and she leaned comfortably back against him. They’d ceased to pass any other riders for a few long minutes.

“Are you sure Jean willna find us in the day?”

“He’s arrogant. He thinks he has us run to ground. Jean is canny but too confident, perhaps. I should have challenged him outright instead of trying to trap him.”

His head was hanging lower as he spoke, and Kenna began to worry at his weariness. Until she felt his teeth graze her neck.

“Oh!” she yelped, shocked by a lightning rush of arousal.

“I canna stop thinking of you above me,” he whispered.

“Oh.” Her sex clenched hard as his thumb feathered over her wrist. She felt the slight pressure of his mouth sucking at her neck. Would he…Surely he wouldn’t bite her right here, would he?

“Och, lass. You smell so perfect.”

“Finlay,” she gasped. “Are you not in pain?”

“Aye, but you’re doing a fine job of distracting me from it.”

Well, she could hardly object to that, could she? Kenna closed her eyes and let her head fall to the side while Finlay laughed against her skin. “You’re supposed to be watching the road for strangers,” he warned, not sounding the least upset.

She forced her heavy eyes open.

His mouth drew a line down to her shoulder. “Will you ride me again tonight, lass?”

Her face burned. “If…Did you like it, then? My husband used to scold me for my eagerness. Not at first, but…later.”

“No offense to his everlasting soul, but your husband was a dolt. I am man enough to take you, lass, whatever you have to give.”

She was grinning like a fool when they rode up on a shepherd and his flock. The shepherd watched them with a wary eye, and the sheep scurried away with panicked bleats. Finlay pulled back on the reins.

She stayed silent as he questioned the man, as he’d questioned others along the way. So far, no one had seen Jean or heard aught of a stranger traveling through under cover of night.

“Were you here last night?” Finlay pressed.

The shepherd shot him an irritated look. “Aye. We slept right off the road two miles on. I’d ’ave seen ’im.”

Finlay tossed a coin in the man’s direction and they were on their way. A few minutes later, they rounded a curve, and the lowering sun threw light into her face. Finlay gasped and recoiled.

“I canna see a damn thing. Can you tell where we are?”

Kenna cast a worried eye down the road. It seemed to head straight into the sun for a good long while. “There’s a small stream ahead and a stone bridge. Just beyond that we ride through a notch in a ridge.”

“Good. There’s no point going farther. He’ll have to pass this way. Can you guide the horse south along the river? Before we cross the bridge.”

Kenna nodded and tightened her hands on the reins. The horse shied a bit at her heavy hand. She’d guided it along the road, but that was a far cry from taking it over hill and hollow.

“You’re doing well,” Finlay murmured, but she couldn’t deny the strain in his voice. The sun hurt even her eyes at this point. He must be in agony.

“Not much farther. I can hear the falls. When you see them, stop. There’s a cave.” She heard him draw a deep breath, scenting the air. “And Jean isna here.”

She spied the falls soon after, and the dark, narrow mouth of the cave. Finlay dropped to the ground when she halted the horse, and Kenna followed him down, gratefully. They’d made it.

As she led him toward the darkness, Kenna caught a glimpse of his face. His skin was an angry red, his eyes nearly swollen shut, the whites dark with blood.

“Your eyes!”

He shook his head and she pulled him into the stone room. Suddenly, she could see nothing, and Finlay was sighing with relief.

“Is it…Are we far enough in?”

“Come, there’s a ledge here.” Now he was leading her, directing her to sit on what felt remarkably like a bench.

“Will your eyes heal?”

He answered, “Aye,” but she heard the clear hesitation on his voice.

“What is it?” she asked into the dark. “Tell the truth.”

“I will need your help. Your blood.”

The fear was a small thing this time, swamped by the anticipation of pleasure.

“But let us rest a while.”

She thought of the arousal she’d fought all day. “No. Now. Let’s do it now.”

“Kenna,” he said, as if he meant to say no, but then he turned her to him and kissed her. She melted into his arms, as if she’d been weeks without him instead of hours. He pulled her up, and she climbed onto his lap and straddled him, kissing him as though she might devour his mouth.

A faint pain pierced the inside of her bottom lip. Before she could even gasp, Finlay was apologizing.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, love.” But his tongue dragged along her lip and his breathing grew labored.

“Take what you need,” she urged, already hot for him.

He groaned, his breath breaking as he fumbled with her skirts and dragged his plaid aside. His hand slid roughly over her sex.

“How can you be so ready for me?” he whispered, but the question needed no answer. He pulled her hips forward and lifted her, and the next thing she knew, his cock was driving deep.

She keened at the painful pleasure, her cry nearly drowning out his animal growl.

His hand wound into her hair to arch her neck. Kenna braced herself, and then he bit her.

There was the pain she’d been expecting. A sharp, small stab, no more than the sting of a bee, but then it turned to a strange warmth, like a hand held too close to a candle. That warmth spread and dimmed before gathering at the points of her pulse. Her wrists and neck and heart…and her sex.

She set her knees against the stone and began to ride his shaft.

Oh, God, yes. Each stroke of his cock was a spark against that warmth the bite had created. And her sex had been swollen all day, wanting and needing. His thighs were hard beneath her, strength against her softness. His arms like bands of steel around her ribs. He was everything she was not. Everything.

He drew at her throat and rose up to meet the fall of her hips, and Kenna screamed as her body tightened around him. She was peaking already, shaking against him and crying his name.

He swallowed for a long while before drawing his fangs free. Then he lifted her hips once, twice more, roaring with pleasure as he sank himself deep.

She collapsed against him, limp as a rag doll and just as brainless.

“Christ, woman,” he panted, his hand smoothing against her hair. “You’re a miracle.”

“That’s sacrilege, Finlay MacLain,” she said, though her scold sounded more like a purr.

“I’ll worship you privately, then, and keep my prayers to myself.”

“Are you better now?”

“Aye. I’ll be good as new in an hour or so, and the sun willna set for a while yet.” He eased back. “And you, Kenna? How do you feel?”

“Full,” she answered honestly, loving the sound of his laughter. “And drained all at once.” He laughed harder, and she realized what she’d said and laughed with him. There was no reason to move, so they sat still for a long while, arms tangled and breath mingling. She thought she could stay like this for months and years.

But how long did she have, really? “After you kill Jean, will you be done with me then?”

His body turned to rock beneath hers. “What?”

She gulped at the coldness of the word.

“You wish to be on your way, I suppose,” he muttered. “Free of this madness.”

“No! ’Tis not that. You said that once you’d killed Jean you’d be done, but you never said with what. I worried you meant…I worried you meant you’d be done with your life.”

“Oh. I did.”

Her gut clenched as if he’d hit her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean my life has been worth nothing more than this revenge. I brought death upon my clan. Shame to my father’s name. There is no one left who even depends upon me.”

“What about…” She bit her tongue. “What about Gray? And Mrs. McDermott?”

“They’ve both been provided for.”

Kenna didn’t know what to say. Did he mean to take his own life? How would he even do it? She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Finlay drew in a deep breath. “I thought you were asking to leave.”

Kenna shook her head and squeezed him as hard as she could. “Nay, Finlay. Not now.”

There were things to be done. Plans to be made. But she was glad he was content to hold her and sit still for a long, long while.

“Do not leave the cave.” He held both her arms and tried to meet her gaze, even knowing she could see nothing in the dim.

“I’ve said I won’t.”

“No matter what happens,” he insisted. “Even if you think me dead, do not come out. The waterfall will hide the sound of your breathing, and your scent as well, so long as he does not draw close. Do not come out.”

“All right.” She was agreeing, but the stubborn set of her chin told a different story.

“Promise me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I promise.”

By God, she was so lovely and wild. He wanted another taste of her, but she must be sore. And there was no time. And he wanted her so badly.

“If he kills me, he’ll have no need of you. Wait here until—”

“Finlay!”

He ignored the flash of panic in her eyes. “Wait until day, then go to MacLain Castle. There is gold in the chest in my room.”

“Stop! I willna listen to this!”

He glanced out the opening of the cave. The sky was nearly as dark as the cave now. “I must go.”

“Finlay,” she said, retrieving his attention. She rose on her toes to press a kiss to his mouth. “Be careful. Please. You are such a good man.”

He could say nothing to that, so he kissed her back and then walked into the night, his movements silent as a creeping cat. The wind was at his back, so he crossed to the other side of the road and ducked down into the space beneath the bridge.

If Jean had been to MacLain Castle, he must take this road to reach Stirling. He must cross this bridge. And Finlay would have him.

The stars winked one by one to life. The moon rose. The wind died down around him, swelling the night with silence. Even the dying leaves ceased to tumble across rock. He was left alone with his thoughts.

He’d had no plans for what he would do after finally killing Jean. He’d only known his purpose in life would be done. His slow work of the past fifty years would be over.

For a while he’d despaired of ever finding Jean Montrose. The man hadn’t been hiding, he’d simply disappeared into the strange world of the Orient, emerging for short periods to roam through Europe before returning to the East. He was some sort of restless demon, wandering the earth, leaving chaos in his wake. What he’d done to Finlay, he’d done to others, as if he took joy in using up the people around him. He used them until there was nothing left, and then moved on to another victim.

But Finlay would put an end to that, finally, if he wasn’t killed himself. And if he did emerge the victor, then what?

His mind filled with images of Kenna Graham. Her head thrown back as she took her pleasure, her mouth tightening with anger at his high-handedness, her bowed head as she wept in loneliness. She was a mate, so the lust was there, but in truth, he simply liked her.

If only his life were something—anything—to offer a woman. If only he’d made himself something more than a murderer.

A noise floated on the air.

Finlay tensed, cocking his head. “This is ridiculous,” a male voice complained in French. “He’s disappeared like a snake into the grass.”

“He will be at Stirling,” another voice responded. Jean.

“You said he would be at his castle.”

There was a loud crack, followed closely by the panicked scream of a horse and a woman’s laugh. “Stop it,” the woman scolded, her voice husky with amusement. “You fight like small children. This trip was supposed to be entertaining, and I am growing bored.”

“Hold your tongue, wench,” Jean growled. He was getting closer. His words echoed off rock. They were riding through the notch.

Finlay raised his head above the bank of the stream. Two horses approached. Jean was on one, a man and woman on the other. The wind shifted for a bare moment, carrying the scent of old smoke with it. Not opium smoke, but the stench of burning houses. Finlay’s heart sank.

“I need a new woman,” the younger man said, causing the woman in his arms to hiss. Her fangs flashed in the moonlight. “Bah,” her companion complained as he pulled too hard at the reins. “You are too eager. I like the scent of fear while I’m fucking.”

She rained a flurry of words down on his head in a language Finlay had never heard, so he shut them out. The man’s words, on the other hand, penetrated Finlay’s brain like a knife. “After you kill the Scotsman”—he chuckled—“can I have the wench?”

If Finlay failed in this, Kenna would suffer at the hands of these creatures.

He tightened his hold on his claymore and counted to ten. They approached the bridge. Closer, closer. The first horse stepped onto the bridge. Jean.

Finlay waited.

When he heard the first horse’s back hooves touch the stone, Finlay rose up with a banshee’s cry and swung his claymore toward the male rider on the second horse. While the woman was still drawing a breath to scream, his blade sliced into flesh and the man’s head tumbled toward the water.

The horse snorted and pawed the ground as if it would rear. Finlay slapped its hindquarters and sent it running, the woman’s scream escaped to trail behind her into the night.

Jean wheeled his horse around with a shout of fury.

“Get down,” Finlay ground out. “Get down and fight.”

“You crazed bastard!” Jean’s horse pranced sideways, eyes rolling. “You’ve been alive only seventy years. Don’t tell me you’ve already gone mad.”

“Get off the horse and face me!” He circled around, trying to trap Jean against the low stone wall of the bridge, but Jean pulled back on the reins, sawing into the horse’s mouth and forcing it backward.

“You took my arm, you Scottish bastard. I can’t imagine what the fuck you are so angry about.”

Finlay heard the blade sing through the air just in time to jump back. “You killed my entire clan, Jean. And now I will kill you.” He swung the claymore over his head, power pushing through him as he aimed for Jean’s thigh.

The vampire slid off the other side, and Finlay pulled back just in time to avoid killing the horse. “Damn it.”

“Your clan,” Jean spat, backing off the bridge toward the far side of the road. “They were humans. Cattle. The only reason we spared you was because you were one of us.”

“You made me into one of you!” he screamed as he moved toward him, matching Jean step for step.

“You begged for it,” Jean sneered.

Rage exploded through him. Aye, he had begged for it. He’d wanted power and women and strength. Finlay raised his claymore with a scream and rushed toward the man he’d waited fifty years to kill. The swords clashed so hard that sparks flew into the night.

Jean’s sword slid down and he spun away, stepping just out of the reach of Finlay’s blade. “Where is the wench?” he sneered.

Finlay swung again, meeting Jean’s blade with another jarring crash.

“I can smell her on you. Fresh. Very fresh. She’s here. Hiding.”

Clang.

Jean danced away again. “After I kill you, I’ll find her, and I’ll fuck her.”

No. He swung with the full force of his body, spinning Jean to the left, forcing him onto the uneven surface of the grass.

Jean laughed. “And then,” he panted, “I’ll take her home with me. Perhaps I’ll even turn her and keep her forever.”

He’d counted on his words turning Finlay’s world red, and it worked. Roaring, he dove toward Jean as the man’s sword swung suddenly up. Finlay twisted just in time. The tip caught him, ripping open his shoulder, but it did not kill him, and it did not slow him down.

He used the force of his spin to turn him back around, and swung his claymore in a wide arc. “May you rot in hell!” he screamed as his blade sunk deep just at the juncture of Jean’s neck. It sliced through his shoulder and rib cage, traveling all the way to his belly before it stuck. Jean’s eyes widened, his body split, and he was dead as he fell to the ground.

Kenna was safe. She was safe. So Finlay hardly even minded the sword that stuck straight from his chest. Still, it was a surprise to look down and see it.

He’d told her not to leave the cave. He’d made her promise. But the shouting had started and there had been more than two voices, and fear for him had overwhelmed her. So she’d sneaked closer. Just to be sure. Just to know he was safe.

And now she could not move.

Finlay stood. He stood alive over the body of his dead enemy. Thank God.

But as she watched, frozen, Finlay looked down. Even in the moonlight she could see the confusion on his face. The stunned question. She followed his gaze…and she screamed.

Her wail chased the confusion from his face and replaced it with fury. “You…” he croaked as his legs buckled and he fell hard to his knees.

“Oh, my God. Finlay.” She ran as fast as she could across the grass and over the road. “Oh, God, no.”

“You weren’t to leave the cave,” he rasped. Blood bubbled from his lips, black in the moonlight.

“Don’t die!” she cried as she went to her knees beside him. “Don’t die.”

“There’s a woman on a horse. Do not trust her. She’s a vampire.” He swayed forward, terrifying her. If he fell on the blade, he would surely die. He would surely die anyway. She grabbed his shoulder to hold him up, as if she could support his weight.

“Did it hit your heart? You said it must hit your heart. Please tell me you won’t die.”

“I canna be sure.” Blood trickled down his chin. “Close enough, perhaps. But you are safe, Kenna. He’s dead and you’re safe.”

“Please.”

His body swayed. “Don’t forget the gold.”

“Damn you,” she hissed, terrified into anger. “You will not die. I won’t allow it. You are the best man I’ve ever known, and I want you, Finlay. Do you understand? I mean to keep you. You canna die.”

His smile was made grotesque by the blood. “You’re a miracle, Kenna Graham.”

“Stop speaking that way. Tell me what to do! Tell me.”

He coughed, and blood sprayed across her arm.

“No, please. Please, Finlay. Don’t deny me this. Stay with me.”

He drew in a deep, bubbling breath.

“I love you. You’re a good man. My good man.” She shook her head and begged. “Tell me what to do. Please.”

His eyes met hers for a long, quiet moment. They were so dark in the night. So beautiful. “Leave…” he whispered. “Leave the blade in. If I fall, help me to my side. When the blood stops, if I still live…pull it out.”

“Aye,” she sobbed. “Aye.”

His breath rattled. In and out. Kenna waited, her hands braced against his shoulder. Blood dripped from his mouth. He swayed.

“I do…” he started. “I do love you, Kenna. Lay me down now, lass.”

“Oh, God,” she prayed as she guided him down to his side. “Oh, God, please save him. He’s a fine man. Please.”

The blood bubbled faster in this position, forming a black puddle beneath his cheek. Finlay’s eyes drifted shut and stayed that way.

On her knees, she prayed. If he was a demon, God would not save him. But if he lived, Kenna would know that he wasna truly cursed. She would convince him to believe it, too.

The rattling stopped.

“Finlay,” she cried, dropping to her hands to feel his breath. It was there. The bleeding from his chest had stopped. And he breathed. She waited longer, not sure if she should touch him. But the breathing continued.

Her knees went numb. Her voice faded away from praying.

Finally, she grasped the handle of the narrow sword. If it had been a claymore, she couldn’t have budged it. But it was a French sword, and when she pulled, it slid free of his flesh with a sickening squish.

Finlay awoke with a roar, both hands flying to the wound she’d left behind.

“Finlay! Finlay, don’t touch it!”

“Nay,” he coughed. “Press it hard.”

He tumbled to his back and Kenna pounced on him to press against the seeping wound. He grunted in pain, but she didn’t even flinch. “You will live,” she ordered.

He didn’t smile this time. He was too busy grimacing in pain. Kenna took that as a good sign and pressed harder.

“Jesus Christ, woman!”

Kenna smiled. He was going to live.

He was going to live.

Chapter Eight

Finlay stood expressionless, staring at the ruin of the last remains of his life.

Smoke still curled from the black, blank windows of the castle. Embers glowed in the faint glimmer of dawn. The gray stone of the castle had turned black at all the edges.

Kenna’s hand squeezed his. “Do you think Gray and Mrs. McDermott were gone?”

He’d ordered them gone, but Gray was stubborn. He shook his head. “I canna be sure.”

“Let’s look around.”

Nodding, he let Kenna pull him toward the stables, which still stood whole and undamaged. When they were ten yards from the door, Gray stepped out.

“Gray!” he shouted, and her solemn eyes rose to meet his.

“Laird MacLain.”

“You left as I ordered?” He couldn’t keep the doubt from his voice.

Gray shrugged. “I sent Mrs. McDermott and her boy on to the cottage. I hid in the stable loft while the others were here. They didn’t notice.”

“Well, it’s a relief to see you.”

Gray shrugged again and went about her business, taking the reins of the horse and leading it into the stables.

Finlay simply stood and stared, unsure what to do.

“I think you should build a new castle, Finlay.”

He glanced down to the woman at his side. Dark shadows marred the skin beneath her cheeks. “Why?”

“This one was full of ghosts. You need a new home.” Her jaw edged out. Finlay almost smiled.

“I don’t think we should stay here, Kenna. Let us go somewhere else.”

She bit her lip, uncertain for a moment. “We will do what you like. But you are the leader of the clan, and there are MacLains out there still. You can call them home and start again.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” But the idea lodged beneath his breastbone and he knew it could find purchase there.

“Whatever you decide, Finlay,” Kenna said. “But not today. Today we will sleep.”

“Aye. But just to be clear, Kenna, you’re about to bed down with me in a stable.”

“Aye?”

“In a plaid stained with my blood.”

“And?”

“And you still think me a good enough man for you?”

“Ha,” she huffed, her mouth curving up into a grin. Her hands reached for him, brushing his chin before she found his jaw and pulled him down to her. “You’re my man, Finlay MacLain, and you shan’t get rid of me so easily. Hay and blood and burned out castles willna scare me off. I’m yours.”

His heart swelled so large that it pushed against his ribs. “Aye, Kenna, you’re mine. My old life is done. And you’re still mine.”

“Take me to your stables, Laird MacLain.” She laughed.

And so he did.

Dear Readers:

I hope you’ve enjoyed HIGHLAND BEAST. For my next single-title historical romance, I’m returning to visit the Murrays, the Highlands, and the heather. Sir Simon Innes—who appeared in both HIGHLAND WOLF and HIGHLAND SINNER—has been whining for his own story and his own special heroine. And who better for him than a Murray lass? A lass raised to be strong, quick of wit, adventurous, and destined to find trouble if it doesn’t find her first.

Ilsabeth Murray Armstrong is the daughter of Elspeth Murray and Cormac Armstrong from HIGHLAND VOW. Following in the footsteps of her illustrious ancestresses, she stumbles her way into a lot of trouble. She overhears her betrothed speaking with another man of a plot against the king. Before she can get home to speak to her parents she is warned that a man has been murdered, her dagger found in his heart, and that the king’s men were already searching for her.

Knowing that she cannot drag her family into the midst of such treachery and suspicion, she seeks out a man who has already saved two Murrays from the hangman—the dark, sober Sir Simon Innes. Ilsabeth finds him to be a man very much to her liking despite the distrust he reveals as she pleads for his help. She is not one to back down from a challenge and sets her heart and mind on proving her innocence. But can she prove to him that she is the perfect woman for a man who is too much alone, his spirit burdened by the evils he has seen?

Sir Simon Innes is a man dedicated to finding the truth and he is not all that sure that the beautiful Ilsabeth is being completely honest with him. She may have Murray blood but she is also an Armstrong and they do not have a particularly sterling reputation. He finds himself tempted by her big blue eyes and her lively spirit, however, and is drawn deep into the danger and betrayal surrounding her. Passion soon rules them both and he risks his position as a king’s man to try and save her.

Oh, yes, Simon and Ilsabeth have a hard row to plow, enemies to fight, and doubts to conquer. Will she win? Or will treachery defeat all her plans? And what of Simon? Can he give his well-protected heart to a woman he is not sure he can trust?

After the tale of Simon and Ilsabeth I do plan to return to the Wherlockes. There are so many stories about their vast and gifted family that need to be told. I am thinking it is time the cocky, randy, but ohso-charming Sir Argus Wherlocke gets his tale. He is certainly demanding one. Nudging at my mind even as I turn my attention back to the Murrays.

But what sort of woman would deal well with a man who has two illegitimate sons? A man who has bedded far too many women, starting at a very young age? A man who can make anyone tell him their deepest, darkest secrets?

She would have to be a very strong woman. She would also have to have some defense against that strange gift of his. After all, what woman wants a man who knows all her secrets? Where would be the mystery in that? Matching that arrogant rogue will not be easy but I know there is a woman out there ready to take him on. And I think Argus should have to work very hard to deserve her, don’t you?

Here’s hoping you will enjoy a return to the Murrays!

Happy Reading!
Hannah Howell

Secrecy and intrigue ignite dangerous passions in New York Times
bestselling author Hannah Howell’s
seductive new novel….

It is whispered throughout London that the members of the Wherlocke family are possessed of certain unexplainable gifts. But Lord Ashton Radmoor is skeptical—until he finds an innocent beauty lying drugged and helpless in the bedroom of a brothel.

The mystery woman is Penelope Wherlocke, and her special gift of sight is leading her deep into a dangerous world of treachery and betrayal. Ashton knows he should forget her, yet he’s drawn deeper into the vortex of her life, determined to keep her safe. But Penelope is no ordinary woman, and she’s never met the man strong enough to contend with her unusual abilities.

Until now…

Please turn the page for
an exciting sneak peek of
Hannah Howell’s
IF HE’S SINFUL,
now on sale!

London—fall, 1788

There was something about having a knife held to one’s throat that tended to bring a certain clarity to one’s opinion of one’s life, Penelope decided. She stood very still as the burly, somewhat odiferous, man holding her clumsily adjusted his grip. Suddenly, all of her anger and resentment over being treated as no more than a lowly maid by her stepsister seemed petty, the problem insignificant.

Of course, this could be some form of cosmic retribution for all those times she had wished ill upon her stepsister, she thought as the man hefted her up enough so that her feet were off the ground. One of his two companions bound her ankles in a manner quite similar to the way her wrists had been bound. Her captor began to carry her down a dark alley that smelled about as bad as he did. It had been only a few hours ago that she had watched Clarissa leave for a carriage ride with her soon-to-be fiancé, Lord Radmoor. Peering out of the cracked window in her tiny attic room she had, indisputably, cherished the spiteful wish that Clarissa would stumble and fall into the foul muck near the carriage wheels. Penelope did think that being dragged away by a knife-wielding ruffian and his two hulking companions was a rather harsh penalty for such a childish wish borne of jealousy, however. She had, after all, never wished that Clarissa would die, which Penelope very much feared was going to be her fate.

Penelope sighed, ruefully admitting that she was partially at fault for her current predicament. She had stayed too long with her boys. Even little Paul had urged her not to walk home in the dark. It was embarrassing to think that a little boy of five had more common sense than she did.

A soft cry of pain escaped her, muted by the filthy gag in her mouth, when her captor stumbled and the cold, sharp edge of his knife scored her skin. For a brief moment, the fear she had been fighting to control swelled up inside her so strongly she feared she would be ill. The warmth of her own blood seeping into the neckline of her bodice only added to the fear. It took several moments before she could grasp any shred of calm or courage. The realization that her blood was flowing too slowly for her throat to have been cut helped her push aside her burgeoning panic.

“Ye sure we ain’t allowed to have us a taste of this, Jud?” asked the largest and most hirsute of her captor’s assistants.

“Orders is orders,” replied Jud as he steadied his knife against her skin. “A toss with this one will cost ye more’n she be worth.”

“None of us’d be telling and the wench ain’t going to be able to tell, neither.”

“I ain’t letting ye risk it. Wench like this’d be fighting ye and that leaves bruises. They’ll tell the tale and that bitch Mrs. Cratchitt will tell. She would think it a right fine thing if we lost our pay for this night’s work.”

“Aye, that old bawd would be thinking she could gain something from it right enough. Still, it be a sad shame I can’t be having me a taste afore it be sold off to anyone with a coin or two.”

“Get your coin first and then go buy a little if’n ye want it so bad.”

“Won’t be so clean and new, will it?”

“This one won’t be neither if’n that old besom uses her as she uses them others, not by the time ye could afford a toss with her.”

She was being taken to a brothel, Penelope realized. Yet again she had to struggle fiercely against becoming blinded by her own fears. She was still alive, she told herself repeatedly, and it looked as if she would stay that way for a while. Penelope fought to find her strength in that knowledge. It did no good to think too much on the horrors she might be forced to endure before she could escape or be found. She needed to concentrate on one thing and one thing only—getting free.

It was not easy, but Penelope forced herself to keep a close eye on the route they traveled. Darkness and all the twists and turns her captors took made it nearly impossible to make note of any and every possible sign to mark the way out of this dangerous warren she was being taken into. She had to force herself to hold fast to the hope that she could even truly escape, and the need to get back to her boys who had no one else to care for them.

She was carried into the kitchen of a house. Two women and a man were there, but they spared her only the briefest of glances before returning all of their attention to their work. It was not encouraging that they seemed so accustomed to such a sight, so unmoved and uninterested.

As her captor carried her up a dark, narrow stairway, Penelope became aware of the voices and music coming from below, from the front of the building, which appeared to be as great a warren as the alleys leading to it. When they reached the hallway and started to walk down it, she could hear the murmur of voices coming from behind all the closed doors. Other sounds drifted out from behind those doors but she tried very hard not to think about what might be causing them.

“There it be, room twenty-two,” muttered Jud. “Open the door, Tom.”

The large, hirsute man opened the door and Jud carried Penelope into the room. She had just enough time to notice how small the room was before Jud tossed her down onto the bed in the middle of the room. It was a surprisingly clean and comfortable bed. Penelope suspected that, despite its seedy location, she had probably been brought to one of the better bordellos, one that catered to gentlemen of refinement and wealth. She knew, however, that that did not mean she could count on any help.

“Get that old bawd in here, Tom,” said Jud. “I wants to be done with this night’s work.” The moment Tom left, Jud scowled down at Penelope. “Don’t suspect you’d be aknowing why that high-and-mighty lady be wanting ye outta the way, would ye?”

Penelope slowly shook her head as a cold suspicion settled in her stomach.

“Don’t make no sense to me. Can’t be jealousy or the like. Can’t be that she thinks you be taking her man or the like, can it. Ye ain’t got her fine looks, ain’t dressed so fine, neither, and ye ain’t got her fine curves.

Scrawny, brown mite like ye should be no threat at all to such a fulsome wench. So, why does she want ye gone so bad, eh?”

Scrawny, brown mite? Penelope thought, deeply insulted even as she shrugged in reply.

“Why you frettin’ o’er it, Jud?” asked the tall, extremely muscular man by his side.

Jud shrugged. “Curious, Mac. Just curious, is all. This don’t make no sense to me.”

“Don’t need to. Money be good. All that matters.”

“Aye, mayhap. As I said, just curious. Don’t like puzzles.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Well, it be true. Don’t want to be part of something I don’t understand. Could mean trouble.”

If she was not gagged, Penelope suspected she would be gaping at her captor. He had kidnapped the daughter of a marquis, brought her bound and gagged to a brothel, and was going to leave her to the untender care of a madam, a woman he plainly did not trust or like. Exactly what did the idiot think trouble was? If he was caught, he would be tried, convicted, and hanged in a heartbeat. And that would be merciful compared to what her relatives would do to the fool if they found out. How much more trouble could he be in?

A hoarse gasp escaped her when he removed her gag. “Water,” she whispered, desperate to wash away the foul taste of the rag.

What the man gave her was a tankard of weak ale, but Penelope decided it was probably for the best. If there was any water in this place it was undoubtedly dangerous to drink. She tried not to breathe too deeply as he held her upright and helped her to take a drink. Penelope drank the ale as quickly as she could, however, for she wanted the man to move away from her. Anyone as foul smelling as he was surely had a vast horde of creatures sharing his filth that she would just as soon not come to visit her.

When the tankard was empty he let her fall back down onto the bed and said, “Now, don’t ye go thinking of making no noise, screaming for help or the like. No one here will be heeding it.”

Penelope opened her mouth to give him a tart reply and then frowned. The bed might be clean and comfortable, but it was not new. A familiar chill swept over her. Even as she thought it a very poor time for her gift to display itself, her mind was briefly filled with violent memories that were not her own.

“Someone died in this bed,” she said, her voice a little unsteady from the effect of those chilling glimpses into the past.

“What the bleeding hell are ye babbling about?” snapped Jud.

“Someone died in this bed, and she did not do so peacefully.” Penelope got some small satisfaction from how uneasy her words made her burly captors.

“You be talking nonsense, woman.”

“No. I have a gift, you see.”

“You can see spirits?” asked Mac, glancing nervously around the room.

“Sometimes. When they wish to reveal themselves to me. This time it was just the memories of what happened here,” she lied.

Both men were staring at her with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and suspicion. They thought she was trying to trick them in some way so that they would set her free. Penelope suspected that a part of them probably wondered if she would conjure up a few spirits to help her. Even if she could, she doubted they would be much help or that these men would even see them. They certainly had not noticed the rather gruesome one standing near the bed. It would have sent them fleeing from the room. Despite all she had seen and experienced over the years, the sight of the lovely young woman, her white gown soaked in blood, sent a chill down her spine. Penelope wondered why the more gruesome apparitions were almost always the clearest.

The door opened and, before Penelope turned to look, she saw an expression upon the ghost’s face that nearly made her want to flee the room. Fury and utter loathing twisted the spirit’s lovely face until it looked almost demonic. Penelope looked at the ones now entering the room. Tom had returned with a middle-aged woman and two young, scantily clad females. Penelope looked right at the ghost and noticed that all that rage and hate was aimed straight at the middle-aged woman.

Beware.

Penelope almost cursed as the word echoed in her mind. Why did the spirits always whisper such ominous words to her without adding any pertinent information, such as what she should beware of, or whom? It was also a very poor time for this sort of distraction. She was a prisoner trapped in a house of ill repute and was facing either death or what many euphemistically called a fate worse than death. She had no time to deal with blood-soaked specters whispering dire but unspecified warnings. If nothing else, she needed all her wits and strength to keep the hysteria writhing deep inside her tightly caged.

“This is going to cause you a great deal of trouble,” Penelope told the older woman, not really surprised when everyone ignored her.

“There she be,” said Jud. “Now, give us our money.”

“The lady has your money,” said the older woman.

“It ain’t wise to try and cheat me, Cratchitt. The lady told us you would have it. Now, if the lady ain’t paid you that be your problem, not mine. I did as I was ordered and did it quick and right. Get the wench, bring her here, and then collect my pay from you. Done and done. So, hand it over.”

Cratchitt did so with an ill grace. Penelope watched Jud carefully count his money. The man had obviously taught himself enough to make sure that he was not cheated. After one long, puzzled look at her, he pocketed his money and then frowned at the woman he called Cratchitt.

“She be all yours now,” Jud said, “though I ain’t sure what ye be wanting her for. T’ain’t much to her.”

Penelope was growing very weary of being disparaged by this lice-ridden ruffian. “So speaks the great beau of the walk,” she muttered and met his glare with a faint smile.

“She is clean and fresh,” said Cratchitt, ignoring that byplay and fixing her cold stare on Penelope. “I have many a gent willing to pay a goodly fee for that alone. There be one man waiting especially for this one, but he will not arrive until the morrow. I have other plans for her tonight. Some very rich gentlemen have arrived and are looking for something special. Unique, they said. They have a friend about to step into the parson’s mousetrap and wish to give him a final bachelor treat. She will do nicely for that.”

“But don’t that other feller want her untouched?”

“As far as he will ever know, she will be. Now, get out. Me and the girls need to wrap this little gift.”

The moment Jud and his men were gone, Penelope said, “Do you have any idea of who I am?” She was very proud of the haughty tone she had achieved but it did not impress Mrs. Cratchitt at all.

“Someone who made a rich lady very angry,” replied Cratchitt.

“I am Lady Penelope—”

She never finished, for Mrs. Cratchitt grasped her by the jaw in a painfully tight hold, forced her mouth open, and started to pour something from a remarkably fine silver flask down her throat. The two younger women held her head steady so that Penelope could not turn away or thrash her head. She knew she did not want this drink inside her but was unable to do anything but helplessly swallow as it was forced into her.

While she was still coughing and gagging from that abuse, the women untied her. Penelope struggled as best as she could, but the women were strong and alarmingly skilled at undressing someone who did not wish to be undressed. As if she did not have trouble enough to deal with, the ghost was drowning her in feelings of fear, despair, and helpless fury. Penelope knew she was swiftly becoming hysterical but could not grasp one single, thin thread of control. That only added to her terror.

Then, slowly, that suffocating panic began to ease. Despite the fact that the women continued their work, stripping her naked, giving her a quick wash with scented water, and dressing her in a lacy, diaphanous gown that should have shocked her right down to her toes, Penelope felt calmer with every breath she took. The potion they had forced her to drink had been some sort of drug. That was the only rational explanation for why she was now lying there actually smiling as these three harpies prepared her for the sacrifice of her virginity.

“There, all sweets and honey now, ain’t you, dearie,” muttered Cratchitt as she began to let down Penelope’s hair.

“You are such an evil bitch,” Penelope said pleasantly and smiled. One of the younger women giggled and Cratchitt slapped her hard. “Bully. When my family discovers what you have done to me, you will pay more dearly than even your tiny, nasty mind could ever comprehend.”

“Hah! It was your own family what sold you to me, you stupid girl.”

“Not that family, you cow. My true parents’ family. In fact, I would not be at all surprised if they are already suspicious, sensing my troubles upon the wind.”

“You are talking utter nonsense.”

Why does everyone say that? Penelope wondered. Enough wit and sense of self-preservation remained in her clouded mind to make her realize that it might not be wise to start talking about all the blood there was on the woman’s hands. Even if the woman did not believe Penelope could know anything for a fact, she suspected Mrs. Cratchitt would permanently silence her simply to be on the safe side of the matter. With the drug holding her captive as well as any chain could, Penelope knew she was in no condition to even try to save herself.

When Cratchitt and her minions were finished, she stood back and looked Penelope over very carefully. “Well, well, well. I begin to understand.”

“Understand what, you bride of Beelzebub?” asked Penelope and could tell by the way the woman clenched and unclenched her hands that Mrs. Cratchitt desperately wanted to beat her.

“Why the fine lady wants you gone. And you will pay dearly for your insults, my girl. Very soon.” Mrs. Cratchitt collected four bright silk scarves from the large carpetbag she had brought in with her and handed them to the younger women. “Tie her to the bed,” she ordered them.

“Your customer may find that a little suspicious,” said Penelope as she fruitlessly tried to stop the women from binding her limbs to the four posts of the bed.

“You are an innocent, aren’t you.” Mrs. Cratchitt shook her head and laughed. “No, my customer will only see this as a very special delight indeed. Come along, girls. You have work to do, and we best get that man up here to enjoy his gift before that potion begins to wear off.”

Penelope stared at the closed door for several moments after everyone had left. Everyone except the ghost, she mused, and finally turned her attention back to the specter now shimmering at the foot of the bed. The young woman looked so sad, so utterly defeated, that Penelope decided the poor ghost had probably just realized the full limitations of being a spirit. Although the memories locked into the bed had told Penelope how the woman had died, it did not tell her when. However, she began to suspect it had been not all that long ago.

“I would like to help you,” she said, “but I cannot, not right now. You must see that. If I can get free, I swear I will work hard to give you some peace. Who are you?” she asked, although she knew it was often impossible to get proper, sensible answers from a spirit. “I know how you died. The bed still holds those dark memories and I saw it.”

I am Faith and my life was stolen.

The voice was clear and sweet, but weighted with an intense grief, and Penelope was not completely certain if she was hearing it in her head or if the ghost was actually speaking to her. “What is your full name, Faith?”

My name is Faith and I was taken, as you have been.

My life was stolen. My love is lost. I was torn from heaven and plunged into hell. Now I lie below.

“Below? Below what? Where?”

Below. I am covered in sin. But I am not alone.

Penelope cursed when Faith disappeared. She could not help the spirit now, but dealing with Faith’s spirit had provided her with a much-needed diversion. It had helped her concentrate and fight the power of the drug she had been given. Now she was alone with her thoughts and they were becoming increasingly strange. Worse, all of her protections were slowly crumbling away. If she did not find something to fix her mind on soon, she would be wide open to every thought, every feeling, and every spirit lurking within the house. Considering what went on in this house, that could easily prove a torture beyond bearing.

She did not know whether to laugh or to cry. She was strapped to a bed awaiting some stranger who would use her helpless body to satisfy his manly needs. The potion Mrs. Cratchitt had forced down her throat was rapidly depleting her strength and all her ability to shut out the cacophony of the world, the world of the living as well as that of the dead. Even now she could feel the growing weight of unwelcome emotions, the increasing whispers so few others could hear. The spirits in the house were stirring, sensing the presence of one who could help them touch the world of the living. It was probably not worth worrying about, she decided. Penelope did not know if anything could be worse than what she was already suffering and what was yet to come.

Suddenly, the door opened and one of Mrs. Cratchitt’s earlier companions led a man into the room. He was blindfolded and dressed as an ancient Roman. Penelope stared at him in shock as he was led up to her bedside, and then she inwardly groaned. She had no trouble recognizing the man despite the blindfold and the costume. Penelope was not at all pleased to discover that things could quite definitely get worse—a great deal worse.

Yours for Eternity

HANNAH HOWELL
ALEXANDRA IVY
KAITLIN O’RILEY

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

HIS FOR ETERNITY

“Adeline,” he groaned against her throat, “I think we had best cease. The tether on my desire isnae a verra strong one. I am but a heartbeat away from spreading your fine little body out beneath me.”

“Nay, kiss me again,” she demanded. “And again and again until I cannae breathe or think.”

“If I kiss ye again, I willnae stop until ye are fully mine.”

“Oh.” She trembled, passion tearing through her at the mere thought of what they were about to do. “I ken it. Kiss me again.”

Lachann growled softly and kissed her, making no attempt to govern his need. She did not pull away as he had feared she might but pressed even closer. When she tentatively parried the thrust of his tongue with her own, he cast aside all doubt and restraint and pushed her down onto the rough pallet. It took what little willpower he had left not to tear off the thin linen shift she wore, hurl aside his own clothing, and bury himself deep inside her . . .

Books by Hannah Howell

ONLY FOR YOU * MY VALIANT KNIGHT
UNCONQUERED * WILD ROSES
A TASTE OF FIRE * HIGHLAND DESTINY
HIGHLAND HONOR * HIGHLAND PROMISE
A STOCKINGFUL OF JOY* HIGHLAND VOW
HIGHLAND KNIGHT * HIGHLAND HEARTS
HIGHLAND BRIDE * HIGHLAND ANGEL
HIGHLAND GROOM * HIGHLAND WARRIOR
RECKLESS * HIGHLAND CONQUEROR
HIGHLAND CHAMPION * HIGHLAND LOVER
HIGHLAND VAMPIRE * CONQUEROR’S KISS
HIGHLAND BARBARIAN * BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
HIGHLAND SAVAGE * HIGHLAND THIRST
HIGHLAND WEDDING * HIGHLAND WOLF
SILVER FLAME * HIGHLAND FIRE
NATURE OF THE BEAST * HIGHLAND CAPTIVE
HIGHLAND SINNER * MY LADY CAPTOR
IF HE’S WICKED * WILD CONQUEST
IF HE’S SINFUL * KENTUCKY BRIDE
IF HE’S WILD * COMPROMISED HEARTS
HIGHLAND PROTECTOR

Books by Alexandra Ivy

WHEN DARKNESS COMES
EMBRACE THE DARKNESS
DARKNESS EVERLASTING * DARKNESS REVEALED
DARKNESS UNLEASHED * BEYOND THE DARKNESS
DEVOURED BY DARKNESS

Books by Kaitlin O’Riley

SECRETS OF A DUCHESS * ONE SINFUL NIGHT
WHEN HIS KISS IS WICKED * DESIRE IN HIS EYES

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Table of Contents

HIS FOR ETERNITY
Books by Hannah Howell
Books by Alexandra Ivy
Books by Kaitlin O’Riley
Title Page
Highland Blood

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine

Taken by Darkness

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven

Immortal Dreams

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine

Highland Blood

HANNAH HOWELL

Prologue

Scotland
Summer, 1511, In the Reign of James IV

The sound came in on the wind. Voices and a soft mewling. Adeline sat back on her heels and put the blackberries she had just picked into her basket as she strained to listen. She hoped it was not the blacksmith’s boys torturing a cat again. Unable to hear clearly and determined to discover just what was going on, she crept toward the sound, pausing only to pull the hood of her cloak over her head. Her cursed red hair could easily be visible even in the shadows of the trees.

When Adeline drew near enough to not only hear but to see what was happening, it took all of her willpower not to rush forward and confront the couple standing over a wounded child. The child was bleeding from a slash on his small arm and neither the woman nor the man was doing a thing to help. She pushed aside the anger pounding in her head and listened. It soon became clear that Anne Drummond was the child’s mother but Robbie MacAdam was not the father. What also became clear was that they were arguing over the best way to dispose of the child.

“Nay right to just leave him here to get eaten by the beasts,” said Robbie. “Ne’er liked that, though ’tis done from time to time. Why dinnae ye just kill the little bastard?”

“And have that sin on my soul?” Anne shook her head. “Nay, this will do.”

“He will still be dead at your hand.”

“Nay, he willnae. ’Twill be the beasts what kill him, nay me.”

“Dinnae see much difference, woman. Ne’er have. Dead be dead whether ye kill him yourself or leave him for the beasts to gnaw on.”

“If ye think this is so wrong, then ye kill him!”

“I willnae kill a bairn.”

“I dinnae see ye doing anything to save him, either.”

“He be a demon, the devil’s own son. I dinnae want naught to do with him.”

“Then can we leave now?”

“Still doesnae seem right,” muttered Robbie, but he hurried to catch up with Anne, who was already striding away through the trees.

Adeline did not move until she was certain the couple was gone and would not return. It hurt to see the child sitting there, fat tears falling from the little boy’s wide eyes, but she fought the urge to immediately go and comfort the child. Anne and Robbie wanted the child dead. She could not give them any reason to think the boy had survived.

Then the boy looked in her direction. Adeline knew he was aware of her but she did not know how he could be. She had not moved and had made no sound. Cautiously, she stood up and moved toward him. When he showed no sign of fear, she quickly hurried to his side to tend to the cut on his arm. She frowned when she found that it no longer looked as bad as it had first appeared. It did not even need to be bandaged. Shaking away all thoughts of that oddity, she began to plan how she could help him.

“The only curse ye have, my bonnie laddie, is your mother, aye? Now, what to do to make them think they succeeded in their crime?”

She looked at his bloody, ragged clothing. The thought that it was a lot of blood to have come from a cut that was already closed slipped through her mind, but, again, she shook it aside. Murmuring soft words to ease whatever fears the child might feel, she stripped him of his clothes. Tearing the rags, she scattered them over the ground, hoping it would appear that some animal had taken the child.

“Now, ye look a sturdy lad,” she said as the little boy toddled up to her side. “I wonder what your name is.”

“Demon,” the boy said.

“Nay.”

“Debil.”

“Nay.”

“Battird.”

“Most certainly nay. I believe I shall name you. Ye will be called Osgar from this day forward. ’Tis a proud name. My father carried it weel. Now ye can grow up to do the same.” She picked him up in her arms and gently kissed his cheek. “Will ye come home with me, laddie?”

The boy nodded, his wide golden eyes fixed unblinkingly upon her face. “Aye.”

“And your name is?”

“Othgar.”

Adeline laughed and hurried back to her basket. She knew it would not be easy to keep the child safe but she was determined to do so. Anne would never get another chance to kill the boy. Osgar was now hers and woe to anyone who tried to take him away or hurt him. Looking at the boy who smiled up at her, she shook her head. How could anyone think he was a demon?

She stroked his cheek and smiled when he grabbed her by the wrist. He was a strong little boy. They would make a home together, she thought. Finally she would no longer be alone. Adeline’s soft, happy thoughts about the future came to an abrupt halt when Osgar sank his teeth into her wrist.

Chapter One

Enough was enough. Adeline finally accepted the fact that she could not keep Osgar safe as she bathed the dirt and blood from his shaking body. For two years she had struggled to keep him hidden but she had failed. This was the third time someone had hurt him. All she had accomplished with her cautions was to make everyone for miles around think there was a demon running free in the woods. The hunts for the demon were growing more frequent. People not even from the village had joined in, strangers who chilled her blood. It would not be long before the hunters cried her a liar when she claimed that she had never seen the little demon they all looked for. They would tear her tiny cottage apart looking for Osgar.

This time the wounds Osgar had suffered were little more than scratches and a few bruises. The next time her beautiful golden-eyed boy could die. Osgar’s death was what the hunters sought. Although she could not understand this fear of a child, she had to accept that it existed. Adeline swallowed the urge to weep as she sat down on the bed next to Osgar, her dream of their becoming a family in ashes.

Osgar crawled into her lap and Adeline held him close. Burying her nose in his thick raven curls, she blinked back the tears in her eyes. Love was making her weak and she had to fight that weakness. She needed to be strong enough to think only of Osgar’s safety. That meant she had to be strong enough to give him up.

“I dinnae hurt this time,” Osgar said.

Adeline smiled, knowing he meant he did not need her blood. “Good. Ye escaped in time but laddie, ye came too close to dying this time. Three times I have almost lost ye. It cannae go on anymore. We must leave here.”

“Where will we go?”

“To your kinsmen.”

Osgar looked up at her and frowned. “I have kinsmen?”

“Aye, ye do. Ye are of MacNachton blood. The last time those hunters came here to look for you, I followed them when they left. I heard them talk of a clan called MacNachton and that Anne Drummond claims ye are one of them. The men spoke of them as a clan of demons. All they said made me verra certain that ye are kin to them. There were too many similarities for me to doubt it. So, we must seek them out.”

“Where are they?”

“At a place called Cambrun. ’Tis high in the mountains.”

Adeline could still hear the men speaking of how others who had gone hunting there had never returned. It was not something she could tell a little boy of five, however. He lived with enough fear and she did not want him balking at going to Cambrun. The thought of going there terrified her, but it sounded like a place where Osgar would be safe and that was all that mattered.

Osgar sat up and looked around the little cottage. “But I like our home.”

“So do I, love, but ’tis nay longer a safe place for us. Cambrun will be safe.”

“I could keep hiding.”

“Spending hours hidden beneath the floor is no life for ye, laddie. And, thrice ye have nearly been caught. Nay, we must pack what means most to us and seek out your kinsmen for help.”

It proved to be a heartbreaking chore. By dawn, Adeline had reduced her possessions to a few sacks tied to the saddle of one of her ponies. She hated leaving anything behind, for everything in the cottage held a memory of her father or her mother. The only items she could call foolish were her cats, two ratty-eared felines she had saved from the cruelty of the blacksmith’s sons. The animals huddled in the sturdy cage she had made for them and stared at her. Her decision to take them had wavered nearly a dozen times but she had finally, irrevocably, given in to what her heart wanted. She just prayed that she did not lose them on the journey.

“I dinnae think Tom and Meg like their cage,” said Osgar as Adeline put him up on the pony they would ride.

“They would like being left behind even less.” Adeline settled herself behind Osgar and took up the reins. “Who would feed or shelter them?” She checked to make sure the lead to the pony carrying her belongings was secure. “They will settle and they have that nice piece of plaid to keep them warm, aye?”

Adeline stared for another moment at the house she had grown up in. It hurt to leave even though the people she lived amongst had never accepted her. Her father and mother were buried here and it felt as if she were losing them all over again. Then she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, knowing that her parents would understand. Osgar’s life was threatened. She had no choice. Her parents would always live in her heart and memories, and that had to be enough. Whispering a farewell, she lightly kicked her pony into an easy, steady stride and started her journey north.

The moon was high by the time Adeline made camp for the night. She did not like riding at night but Osgar had to be sheltered during the middle of the day, when the sun was at its full strength. Riding into the night was the only way to make up for that lost time.

She unpacked and unsaddled the horses and then started a small fire. Osgar helped her attend to the cats, making certain they did not escape as she gave the animals food and water. Adeline cleaned out the small box of dirt she had secured inside the cage, something she felt quite proud of.

“Will we be there soon?” asked Osgar as they sat by the fire eating cold chicken and oatcakes.

“I cannae say when we will get there, laddie,” Adeline replied. “I just ken that ’tis in those hills we can see to the north. Once we get closer I will try to get some better directions.”

“Those are verra far away.”

“A few days’ ride. Nay more than that, I am thinking. Weel, a few days if we can keep going straight toward them and the weather doesnae stop us. I think if we were closer, Anne would have left ye with them.”

“I am glad ye found me.”

“So am I, love.”

“Will my kinsmen like me?”

“How can they nay do so? They will be verra pleased to have such a fine lad returned to the clan.”

Adeline prayed that was the truth. She had never met any of the MacNachton clan. Yet, if they were all like Osgar, she could see no reason why they would turn the boy away. They would certainly understand the danger the child was in while living outside their protection. The men she had eavesdropped on had called Cambrun an impenetrable fortress and that was just what Osgar needed.

She would not mind living in such a place, either. Adeline was weary of being an outcast, a woman eyed with suspicion and fear even as she was called to heal an injury or birth a child. She was always but one misstep from being decried as a witch, just as her mother had been. A shiver went through her as the dark memories of her mother’s brutal death flooded her mind. It was not a fate she wished to share. She prayed that the MacNachton clan had a place for her even though she was not their kind, and not just so she could remain with Osgar. For once she would like to feel safe.

When they were done eating, Adeline spread a blanket on the ground. She urged Osgar onto the rough bed, ignoring his muttered complaints about how hard that bed was. Settling down next to him, between him and the fire, she drew another blanket over them.

It did not surprise her when his muttering soon ceased, his breathing growing slow and even as sleep conquered him. Adeline wished she could find the sweet oblivion of sleep as easily, but her mind was crowded with worries and fears. Traveling alone with a child was dangerous. Traveling to a place that might be filled with ones like Osgar, ones full-grown with all the power and cunning of men, was terrifying. She closed her eyes and sternly told herself that she had no choice.

The gray of approaching dawn met Adeline’s eyes when she next opened them. Her first clear thought was one of relief when she realized she had managed to get some sleep. The snap of a twig banished the lingering lassitude of sleep. She did not move, but looked around and tensed. Four men were creeping toward her. They were armed and grim of face.

Adeline yanked her knife from beneath the blanket she rested on and leapt to her feet. “Osgar—run.”

Osgar stumbled to his feet and stared at the men. “Maman?”

“Run, Osgar. Now.”

Even as she spoke Adeline knew it was too late. Two of the men moved quickly to get behind her and Osgar, cutting off all chance of the child escaping. There were four of them against one of her. There were four swords against her one knife. They were free to move as they pleased, while she had to protect Osgar. Adeline wanted to scream in fury. She had failed Osgar once again.

Lachann MacNachton idly rode along the rough drover’s track. He would easily reach the next shelter before the sun was high, even at his leisurely pace. For two long months he had searched for ones carrying MacNachton blood but found only one. He had sent the young boy home to Cambrun with Martyn and continued the search on his own. Now he was finally headed home, eager to be back amongst his own kind. He was tired of constantly needing to find shelter when the sun was high and of hiding who he was.

The clan had been ignorant of the Lost Ones, those of MacNachton and Outsider blood, for far too long. For every Lost One they found, they heard of too many others who had met with brutal deaths. It made his heart sore. So many of their people lost and far too many of them killed before they even had a chance to truly live or defend themselves. He yet again cursed all the fools who had never taken the time to be sure that the seed they had so freely spilled everywhere they went had not taken root.

“Maman?”

It was only a whisper on the wind but it yanked Lachann out of his dark thoughts. He halted and looked around, idly stroking his mount’s neck to keep the animal quiet. Lachann waited to hear more, to discover where the voice was coming from.

“Run, Osgar. Now.”

Not far, Lachann thought as he dismounted and secured his horse’s reins to a branch. Unsheathing his sword, Lachann began to silently make his way toward the voices he had heard. One did not tell someone to run unless there was some danger. He was not sure why he was compelled to walk into what was none of his concern, but he did not resist the urge to do so. That first word told him that a child was involved. The second voice had been a woman’s.

“Now, lass, do ye really think ye can stop us from doing what we must with that wee knife? This be God’s work ye interfere with.”

The man’s voice was coarse and weighted with scorn. Why would men attack a woman and child? Lachann wondered as he slipped into the shadow of a tree and studied the scene in a small clearing only a few feet away. A small woman with a young child clinging to her skirts stood within a circle of armed men, a knife in her hand. Her rough gown revealed a slender yet fulsome figure but it was her hair that fully drew his gaze. Gloriously red, it hung in thick, wild waves to her nicely curved hips. His palm actually itched with the urge to touch it. The expression on her pale, beautiful face was one of cold determination. She had no chance at all of fending off four men armed with swords but obviously intended to try. Lachann was just as determined not to let her die. The strength of that determination, one that went far beyond the simple need of a man to protect the weaker, was something he would think about later.

He stepped into the clearing and smiled at the four men who looked at him in surprise and then horror. Lachann made no attempt to hide his fangs, the urge to kill now running strong in his blood. “Ye best leave the lass and the bairn be. If ye do, I just may allow ye to live.”

“So, the demons come to collect their spawn,” said the tallest of the four men.

Lachann was intrigued by that statement, but his gaze on his enemies never wavered. He would consider the meaning of the words when the battle was done. “Four men against a wee lass and a bairn? Such bravery.”

“She is naught but a witch, bred of a witch, and she now protects the devil’s spawn. Can ye nay recognize your own?” The tall man turned all his attention on Lachann, his men quickly doing the same.

“What I recognize is four swine who badly need gutting.” Lachann tossed his sword from hand to hand. “Brave enough to face a mon?”

“Aye! Brave enough to do God’s work and cut down one of Satan’s dogs!”

Adeline stared at the man who challenged her enemies. He had appeared out of the shadows without making a sound until he spoke, his deep voice cutting like a well-honed knife through the tension that had held them all in place. She was spellbound, his height and broad shoulders heralding a champion in her eyes. Then she saw his fangs and nearly gasped. Was he like Osgar or was he, too, a threat? His black hair hung past his shoulders, rippling slightly in the dawn breeze. He had a face to make a woman’s heart beat faster, despite those inhuman teeth. Even in the dim light she could see the glint of gold in his eyes.

Shaking free of her bemusement with her rescuer, Adeline realized no one was watching her or Osgar. She began to edge away from the men, nudging Osgar along behind her. Guilt pinched at her heart. She was leaving the man to face four armed men alone, but she quickly smothered the feeling. Osgar was not able to defend himself. His safety had to be first and foremost in her mind.

She was almost to the trees when the men attacked her rescuer. He moved so fast that she could barely see each deadly motion, only heard the cries of the men who had meant to kill her and Osgar. Two of those men fell to the sweep of her rescuer’s sword before they had even fully engaged him in battle. When another man leapt on her rescuer’s back as he faced the leader of her foes sword to sword, Adeline prepared to throw her knife in an attempt to help him, but he saved himself. He swiftly trotted backward and slammed the man clinging to his back into a tree. The sound of breaking bones made her gasp.

Adeline scooped up Osgar, her mind ordering her to run, but she could not completely break free of her fascination with the battle. Then her savior attacked the last man with a speed and furious skill that quickly disarmed him. Adeline was just thinking that she could stay where she was now that she had a protector, when her savior sank his teeth into the last man’s throat. She ran, praying she had the speed to escape the seductively beautiful dark angel who had just slain all her enemies.

Chapter Two

Lachann rose from the man he had just fed from and cursed. He had not meant to do that but the bloodlust of battle had claimed him. Though his wounds were small, they had bled freely and his body had demanded he feed. It did not surprise him to see that the woman and child had fled. He had loosed the beast every MacNachton had within him, and few Outsiders could face it. It struck him as odd that this time that fear should cause him such a sharp pang.

He cleaned his sword on the dead man’s clothes and sheathed it. The woman had left behind all her belongings, he realized as he looked around. Lachann suspected she would not go far but he was in no mood to chase after her. He was, however, strangely reluctant to leave her. It was because she and the child were unprotected, he told himself, and a little voice in his head scoffed at his claim. Ignoring that voice, he glanced up at the sky and decided he had the time to wait for her to creep back before he would be forced to seek shelter from the sun.

After dragging the bodies away from the area and settling his horse, Lachann stood with his eyes closed and just listened, certain he would hear her approach, for Outsiders could not move silently enough to evade the keen hearing of a MacNachton. A moment later he frowned. Why was he hearing cats? Lachann opened his eyes and walked toward the sound. Hidden from view by the pair of sturdy Highland ponies was a cage with two cats in it.

Lachann smiled even as the cats hissed at him. The cage was large, and dishes for food and water and even a small box of dirt were all tied securely to the bars. An odd scrap of blanket was also set inside for the comfort of the two battle-scarred cats. The woman would definitely return. No one who took such care of two such ragged animals would then desert them.

“Lass, I ken that ye havenae gone far,” he called out. “There is no need to fear me.”

Adeline almost answered, reminding the man of how he had just killed four men and supped on one of them. That was enough to make any sane person fear him. She had not run far, knowing it would be both dangerous and foolish to leave behind the ponies and supplies. As silently as she could, she had crept close enough to be able to hear it when the man rode away. She had just prayed that the man would not take all her things when he did leave. Now, after what felt like hours, it was becoming clear to her that he had no intention of leaving. She was immediately wary of his reasons for lingering. Telling herself that she was now facing one foe instead of four did nothing to ease that wariness.

“If ye make me wait too long, lass, I could become hungry, aye? They say cat tastes much like rabbit and I have always been verra fond of rabbit.”

“Maman, he is going to hurt Tom and Meg!” cried Osgar.

She grabbed the boy before he could run back to the clearing. “Hush, Osgar. He will hear you.”

“Too late,” called the man, the mocking tone in his voice causing her to grit her teeth in annoyance.

Silently repeating every curse she knew, Adeline tried to think of what to do next. She suspected the man was one of the MacNachtons she had intended to find, but she was no longer certain she wanted Osgar to join that clan. Adeline shivered as she recalled how the man had sunk his teeth into the hunter’s throat. That was not the life she wished for Osgar, a life of killing and feeding upon men as if they were cattle. She now had to consider the possibility that some of the horrific tales she had heard about the MacNachtons were true. If they were, the MacNachtons were the very last people she wished to entrust with the care of Osgar.

The four men who had crept into her camp had intended to kill her and Osgar. She did not regret their deaths. She did, however, find many reasons to fear her rescuer. The speed and deadly skill he had shown while killing four armed men had been terrifying things to see. But the way he had drunk of that man’s blood had been worse. Adeline cursed, knowing her thoughts were circling but unsure of what to do.

“Maman?”

“Hush, Osgar,” Adeline said in as soft a voice as she could manage. “I am thinking. We need a plan.”

“But, Maman—”

“Can it not wait?”

“Nay. The mon is here.”

Adeline lifted her gaze enough to see the pair of deer-hide boots planted so firmly in front of her face she knew they were caught. How did the man move like that, like mist rising from the marsh? The brief hesitation brought on by her surprise cost her dearly. She reached for her knife but his long-fingered hand was firmly wrapped around her wrist before she even touched the hilt. A squeak of surprise escaped her as he yanked her to her feet and, in one swift move, disarmed her, wrapped one strong arm around her, and pinned her arms to her sides. Adeline struggled, drumming her heels against his legs, but he took no notice, fixing his gaze on Osgar.

“Be still, woman, ere ye hurt yourself.”

The man’s deep voice made her heart skip and Adeline told herself it was only fear and anger making it do so. “Put me down now,” she ordered, not surprised when he ignored her.

“Put my maman down or I will bite ye,” said Osgar.

Lachann stared at the boy facing him with his little fists raised and a dark scowl on his face. He suddenly heard the voice of one of the men he had just killed. So, the demons come to collect their spawn. Lachann tensed, anticipation and hope surging through him.

“What is your name, lad?” he asked.

“Osgar, and I can bite verra hard.”

“Can ye now?” Lachann carefully studied the big golden eyes staring up at him. He could see the beast glinting in them despite the fact that the child was too young to be revealing it. “Who was your father?”

“Dinnae ken. Anne didnae tell me. I think I called him Papa but he went away and didnae come back.”

Lachann wondered why the child paled a little but before he could ask, the boy was looking belligerent again. “And just who is this Anne that she should know what mon bred ye? This lady?” Lachann was not surprised at how tense and still his captive had become, not after all she had already done to protect the child.

“Nay. Ye are holding my mither. Anne is the lady whose body I came out of. She cut me and left me in the woods for the beasties to gnaw on. Maman saved me. So, ye had best put her down or I will get verra mean.”

Lachann looked at the woman he held. She was staring at him, her lovely green eyes filled with fear and mistrust, her temptingly full lips made thin by the way she pressed them together as if afraid to speak. He doubted she had any MacNachton blood in her, yet she cared for a child who was plainly one of the Lost Ones, had even been ready to die to protect the boy. What Lachann needed to do now was to ease her fear and gain her trust. Considering all she had just seen him do, gaining her trust was not going to be easy. He needed it, however, if only to get some answers about why a small boy already had so many of the traits most MacNachtons did not gain until they were older.

“Ye took the lad in?” After a brief hesitation, she nodded. “He is a MacNachton. He is of my clan, my blood.”

“How can ye be so certain of that?” Adeline asked.

Deciding she was both weaponless and easy to hang onto, Lachann loosened his hold on her body but, the moment her feet touched the ground, wrapped his hand around her slim wrists to hold her in place. “Are ye a witch?” he asked, suddenly recalling something else the men had said.

“Nay, and neither was my mother,” she snapped. “Healers. That is all she was and all I am. Healers. For that they killed her and would, undoubtedly, soon come for me. What Osgar tells ye is true. His birth mother and a man cut him and left him in the woods. I took him in. I am Adeline Dunbar. Two years ago that happened and since then the fools searching the wood for some demon have nearly killed him. Thrice. I decided we needed to leave that place.”

“We are going to Cambrun,” said Osgar, “where there are people like me.”

Adeline was not sure why Osgar was now so calm and friendly just because the man no longer held her up like a sack of grain. “I dinnae believe that is any of this mon’s business, Osgar.”

“Oh, but it is,” said the man. “I am Lachann MacNachton. I have been on a long search for ones we call the Lost Ones and am now headed home to Cambrun. Ye will ride with me.”

“Nay, we willnae.” She gave a brief attempt to free her wrists from his hold before deciding that all she was accomplishing was to use up her strength in a futile attempt to escape. “I have changed my mind about going to Cambrun.”

“Because ye saw me kill those men.”

“Nay, because of what I saw ye do to the last mon ye fought. That isnae what I want for Osgar.”

“It was the bloodlust of the battle, lass. That and the fact that I had lost some blood. And, whether ye take the lad to his clan or nay, he will become like me.” He frowned at Osgar. “ ’Tis unusual for the beast to be stirring in one so young.”

“There is nay a beast in the child!”

He grinned at her forceful defense of the boy but quickly grew serious again. “MacNachton bairns, especially those born of both MacNachtons and Outsiders, dinnae show the”—he glanced at her scowling face—“spirit the adult MacNachtons do at such a young age. ’Tis often something else that gives away their heritage. That need for blood if weakened or wounded is usually it, or the weakness caused by the sun. How strong is his weakness? How long can he stay in the sun?”

“He cannae abide the noon sun.”

Lachann nodded. “Come along, lad. We can talk o’er all this back at the campsite.”

Adeline stumbled slightly when Lachann started striding back to the clearing, dragging her along at his side. The only thing that aided her in remaining calm was that the man showed no hesitation in his acceptance of Osgar as one of his own. He showed no hesitation in expecting that Osgar would take his place at Cambrun, either. The latter was not something she was feeling all that sure of at the moment, but her need to flee the man’s side had eased. She was willing to listen.

“When did ye ken that the lad was different?” Lachann asked as he sat near the fire with Adeline and Osgar, passing his skin of cider around.

“Immediately,” replied Adeline. “Within moments after I picked him up to take him home with me, he fed from my wrist. His wound had healed but I eventually realized that ’twas the loss of blood that made him do that.”

“He fed from ye? Ye didnae have to coax him to it?”

“Nay. He just did it. Now he tells me when he hurts. He doesnae just bite.”

Lachann simply could not understand how the boy could be as he was. Full-blooded MacNachton children had not been born for many, many years but there were tales of them, memories kept alive so that they could all learn from the past. No child born of Outsiders and MacNachtons revealed such a need for blood so soon, or the innate skill on how to take it.

“Why do ye look at him like that?” asked Adeline.

“I am just trying to understand something that doesnae make any sense,” replied Lachann. “Laddie,” he asked Osgar, “have ye always had the need to feed?”

“Nay,” replied Osgar. “I did it first just after my fither went away.”

“Ye were a verra wee lad when Adeline took ye in. Are ye certain ye recall anything about your father?”

“He was verra big and he said I had to be brave because he had to mark me. I was brave. I ’member that clear because then he left and he ne’er came back. Then Anne decided to put me out for the beasties.”

“He marked ye?”

“ ’Tis what he said. Right here.” Osgar pulled up his shirt and pointed to a crescent-shaped mark very near his heart. “See? This proves I had a fither because he said this is what fithers do when they love their sons and want to be sure they are safe e’en when he cannae be there to help them. He said if someone tried to hurt me, he would ken and come help me but he didnae come. Maman did.”

Lachann reached out and lightly touched the scar. “Sweet Jesu, he is a Blooded Son.”

“What do ye mean?” asked Adeline, gently tugging Osgar’s shirt back down.

“ ’Tis an old ritual. Verra old. It was rarely done, for it made the child as much a MacNachton as any adult was. The father bites the child, takes a wee bit of blood, and then feeds his own to the child. Within the week the child is still a child but with an old soul, if ye will. It was a way to protect the child, to help the parent ken exactly when he was in danger. They became bonded in many ways. It can also give the child some added strength and speed so that he can better protect himself despite his small size.”

Adeline lightly stroked Osgar’s thick black curls. “His father kenned that Anne had become a threat to him and Osgar.”

“I would guess that is just what happened but the mon couldnae stay just then, so he did what he could to try and protect his son.”

“Then where is he?”

“I fear he is dead. A parent who has blooded his child cannae stay away from him for verra long; the bond is that strong. ’Tis but a guess, but I am thinking he felt the danger was too great to try and take Osgar away with him, that he feared the peril was close enough to make any journey dangerous, and so he went alone to try and get help.”

“And they killed him.”

“Aye, and I suspect this Anne was the one to lead him to his death.” Lachann muttered a few curses, stopping only when he noticed how closely Osgar was paying attention to every word he said. “Again and again I have heard such tales; one of our own led to his death by a woman. None of our men seem to ken that they take their verra lives in their hands when they take up with an Outsider lass.”

“I beg your pardon.” Adeline scowled at him, insulted even though she could understand his anger. “I believe I am one of these people ye call an Outsider and I havenae led anyone to their death, nor would I.”

Lachann looked at her and sighed. Revealing his own mistrust of all who were not of his clan was not a good way to win over her trust. He realized he did not fully extend that mistrust to her but doubted she would believe that, especially as he could not explain why he did not feel it as strongly with her as he should. He hoped it was not just because he felt drawn to her, attracted to her with a strength that left him a little uneasy. Lachann did not want to think he could be such a fool. Just because she saved a child of his clan did not mean she would be as accepting of all of them.

“We need to go and talk to this Anne,” he said.

“Ye want us to turn around and go all the way back?” Adeline shook her head. “Nay, that is foolish.”

“I need to ken who his father is and what has happened to him.”

“He is dead. Ye have just confirmed that with all ye just told us about this marking the mon did. If he wasnae dead he would have come to help Osgar. Ye want us to go to the place where he was probably murdered? Where they hunt for Osgar and think me a witch? That is madness.”

“Ye willnae be without protection this time.” The way she tilted her jaw up and crossed her arms told Lachann she was not going to be easy to convince. She had a right to her fears but he could not let them hold him back from what needed to be done. “I need to ken the truth. For many reasons,” he said when she opened her mouth to argue with him. “It can tell me what Osgar’s bloodline is, which is verra important. He could be of one of the more important families within the clan and that will make a difference in his future.”

The way she frowned told him that making the return trip to the village important for Osgar’s future was the way to get her to agree. Lachann began to explain just how important the boy’s bloodlines were and all about how his clan was trying to put together a history that could help them to solve all the problems their clan faced now. By the time he knew they had to head to shelter, she was a reluctant partner in his plans. He did not fool himself into thinking she would cease trying to make him change his mind, however.

Chapter Three

“I still dinnae like this,” Adeline muttered as she stood beside Lachann looking down the small hillside at the village. She had been grieved to leave her home but not the people who lived here.

“In truth, neither do I, lass,” Lachann confessed, knowing she could not turn back now. “These are the people who tried to kill Osgar and I am certain they killed the lad’s father. I suspicion they would have soon come for ye, too. Nay, I dinnae wish to be here but I cannae ignore the need to speak to this Anne. I need to ken who fathered the lad. If naught else, the mon may have close kin at Cambrun and they will wish to ken what happened to him. That and all the reasons ye have made me repeat again and again since we started the journey here.”

“And ye wish to ken who may be pleased that he left a wee bit of himself behind. I ken it. Doesnae mean I like being here, but I ken the reasons for this are good ones.”

“And ye couldnae have agreed from the start?”

“Nay,” she replied, and made no apology for her stubbornness. “And Osgar should ken if he has family.”

“Aye. Because Osgar is a Blooded Son his family may be able to ken who he is, but I cannae be certain of that. The blood bond may be clear enough for all the mon’s kin to see but a name will help us save some time in kenning who he belongs to if the mark isnae strong enough.”

He belongs to me, Adeline thought as she looked back toward the cluster of trees where Osgar waited with the ponies and Lachann’s horse, but she bit back the words. She hated to leave the boy all alone but had to trust that he knew to flee on the pony if anyone approached him. Osgar had learned how to sense and elude danger before he could even speak clearly. Sad as that was, it served him well. She idly wondered if that was one of the things his father had given him when he had marked him.

“He will be fine,” Lachann said quietly. “He is a clever lad and we willnae be long.”

“As ye wish. She lives in that wee cottage next to the blacksmith’s place. She is a widow now. Her husband was nay rich but he owned that wee home and Anne has a keen eye for lovers with full purses.”

“Any other children?”

“Two. One by her husband and one by a lover. ’Tis whispered that she had others but that she is fond of taking the poor bairns to the wood, returning without them. I ne’er found any, though, nor any sign that she had done so. Another rumor claims that she kens how to rid herself of a bairn ere it is born.” Adeline scowled at Anne’s cottage. “Unfortunately, some in the village believe the latter and think I am the one who gives Anne such potions. I ne’er have. My mother would spin in her grave if I e’en thought of it. But the priest decries my dark sin with near every mass he gives and Anne does naught to absolve me of such unfair blame.”

“And yet ye stayed here, stayed near enough to these fools to be at risk.”

“The cottage was my home,” she explained softly. “They destroyed that when they murdered my mother but I had thought I could regain it with Osgar. I thought he and I could make it a home again.”

Lachann had the strongest, and strangest, urge to pull her into his arms and soothe her pain, to tell her that she could make a home at Cambrun, with him. That was utter foolishness. He did not even know the woman, he told himself firmly and then immediately called himself a liar. She had already revealed her bravery by facing those men and protecting Osgar, her kind heart in the way she had taken in a child most of the world would run from or kill, and her stubbornness in the way she had argued with him so strenuously about returning to this village. She had done it all for Osgar’s sake. Lachann also sensed an old pain, one inflicted by the superstitious people in the village, people who had killed her mother and kept Adeline an outcast.

“Let us be done with this,” he said, shaking away his rambling thoughts as he started down the hill.

Adeline hurried to his side and directed him along a less obvious path to Anne’s cottage. The sun was almost set and most of the villagers were indoors but she saw no reason to risk meeting or being seen by anyone. Someone might already have discovered that she had fled her home. It would not take long for people to wonder why, especially since the suspicion that she was hiding Osgar had already set down roots in the hunters’ minds.

As they approached the back door of Anne’s cottage, Adeline noticed the signs of prosperity. A neat, full kitchen garden, glass in the windows, a newly thatched roof, and a stout door. If Anne was ridding herself of children she was not doing so because she had no means to feed and care for them.

The smile that curved Anne’s full mouth when she opened the door and first saw the strong, handsome man standing there quickly fled. Adeline was just wondering if the woman suddenly recognized something in Lachann that reminded her of the man who had fathered Osgar when Anne tried to shut the door in their faces. Lachann moved with that speed that still astonished her, shoving the door open and grabbing hold of Anne, his hand over her mouth to halt any attempt the woman made to cry out for help. He walked into Anne’s warm kitchen and Adeline followed, shutting the door behind them. A quick glance around told her the children were either gone or in bed.

“Now, mistress, ye will nay scream or cry for aid, aye?” Lachann said.

The hard chill of his voice made Adeline shiver. Anne’s eyes were so wide they had to sting as she stared at the man who held her captive. Fear and guilt were so strong in the woman that Adeline could almost smell them. Finally, Anne nodded.

“Be warned, woman. I can stop ye from screaming ere ye finish taking the breath needed to do so,” Lachann warned as he slowly released Anne.

“Who are ye?” Anne asked as she stumbled back a few steps and fell into a chair.

“I think ye have a good idea. I look like your lover, aye? Like the mon who sired the wee lad ye tried to kill.”

“I have ne’er tried to kill a wee lad!”

“Ye are a poor liar. Ye set your son, a wee bairn, out in the wood kenning weel that he couldnae survive on his own. And, just to make certain the wild beasts made a meal of the boy, ye cut him, filling the air with the tempting scent of blood. Ye may nay have killed the boy with your own hand but leaving him like that ’tis the same, as I see it. What I need to ken now is who sired the boy. Give me a name and I will leave ye be.”

Anne trembled as she looked from Lachann to Adeline and back again. Then, slowly, a sly look entered her eyes and Adeline nearly cursed. It did not surprise her to see that the woman thought she could gain from this confrontation, could sell the truth Lachann sought. One look at Lachann’s face told Adeline that he, too, now saw the crafty thoughts crowding Anne’s mind. She had to wonder just how witless Anne was. Could the woman not see that her life was hanging by a very thin thread?

Lachann leaned toward the woman, letting Anne see the glint of the beast in his eyes. “Best ye think verra carefully about trying to play some game with me, woman. Dinnae think I will be gentle or merciful just because ye are a woman. Ye tried to kill a child of my clan and we dinnae take kindly to that. Nay, nor do we act mercifully to one who sent one of our own to his death.”

Anne went so white Adeline feared she was about to swoon. A quick glance at Lachann’s face told Adeline why the woman was so terrified. Lachann’s beautiful golden eyes had turned hard and feral and he was showing his teeth. Adeline suspected that if she were presented with that face attached to such a big, strong man, one who could snap her neck in the wink of an eye, she might wish to swoon as well. It puzzled her a little that she was not the least bit afraid even now.

“Arailt,” Anne whispered.

For a moment Adeline thought that Lachann was going to draw his sword and strike the woman’s head from her shoulders. Anne must have thought so too, for she tried to press herself into a very small figure in her chair and whimpered. Deciding that although Anne certainly deserved harsh punishment for her crimes and the blood on her hands, it was not wise for Lachann to deliver it, Adeline placed her hand on his arm. It took long enough that she began to grow nervous, but then she felt the hard tension in his arm ease a little.

“How did he die?” Lachann asked, his voice rough with the fury he was struggling to hold back.

“The men hunted him down the last time he left,” Anne replied, a little of her foolish bravado returning as she realized she was not about to be killed.

“Aye, as I thought. And ye told them he was here and where he was headed, didnae ye? Ye made certain your mon wouldnae return to trouble ye again.”

Anger twisted Anne’s face into something far from pretty. “He wasnae a mon! He was a demon and ’tis clear that the land is swarming with them. Ye are of his ilk and ye deserve the same fate. God demands it.”

“Jesu, dinnae try to cover your sins with the shield of righteousness, bitch. Ye were willing to take the mon to your bed, to do so for near to two years. Ye tired of him or found a richer purse to dip your fingers in.”

“Nay, I—”

“Dinnae twist your tongue with more lies. After being his lover for so long ye must have kenned his secrets and ye used them against him. Ye sent him to his death, willingly. Aye, and then ye tried to send his son after him.” He spat at her feet. “Tell me how he died.”

“I dinnae ken. The men hunted him down somewhere in the wood.”

“So how do ye ken he was killed?” Lachann’s stomach turned when he saw how pale she went. “They brought proof of their murder back so that ye could be sure. What? His head?” He could tell by the look on her face that he had guessed right and ached to put his hands around her white throat and choke her until she ceased to breathe.

Adeline shook her head. “Ye could share a mon’s bed, bear his child, and then see him brutally murdered? Why didnae ye just send him and the child away? Ye have ne’er hesitated to simply cast off one mon for another before.”

“Dinnae look down your nose at me, witch,” snapped Anne. “I shouldnae be surprised that ye have taken up with one of the demons. Like clings to like, aye? Weel, best ye run, run faster than your mother could.”

Adeline felt her nails dig into her palms as she clenched her fists, fighting the urge to leap onto Anne and beat her senseless. All the anger and frustration she had suffered over her mother’s death and her inability to make anyone pay for it rose up and choked her. If she had had anyplace else to go she would have walked away from them all. Instead, she had had to ignore their guilt, try not to think of what they had done, and nurse all their petty ills just to survive. They were fortunate she was not the vengeful sort, for she could easily have poisoned the lot of them before anyone became wise to her tricks.

Well, she now had a place to go, she realized, and the tide of her fury receded a little. Lachann had not just taken Osgar and left, something he could have done with ease. He was taking her to Cambrun, too, even though he really had no need of her any longer. She suddenly wanted to talk to him about that, to hear him say outright that she could stay at Cambrun. The thoughts crowding her mind actually helped her regain control of her anger and need for revenge against people like Anne, people who condemned and killed anyone they did not understand.

“Oh, aye, I am leaving,” Adeline said. “Best ye pray none of ye fall ill or have a problem birthing a bairn, for none of ye thought to learn any healing skills, thinking them the devil’s work.”

The look on Anne’s face told Adeline that need for a healer was the only reason she was still alive, her skills quite possibly the only reason they had so easily turned on and killed her mother without thought to all the good the woman had done for them. After all, they still had one healer left. Suddenly all Adeline wanted to do was leave, to get as far away from Anne and her ilk as quickly as possible.

“Fetch anything Arailt gave or left ye,” ordered Lachann. “ ’Tis all Osgar’s by right now.”

“I ken no Osgar,” said Anne.

“He is the bairn ye left to die. The son of the mon ye had killed. Now, I ken he would have given ye gifts or something of his, so I will take it now.” He grabbed Anne by the arm and yanked her out of the chair, and he watched as she tried to hide her hand in her skirts. “I believe we will start with what ye are trying to hide.”

He pulled her hand free of her skirts and stared at the ring on her hand. It was a wide silver band engraved with the badge of the MacNachtons and set with a fat, blood-red garnet. Poor Arailt had cared for this woman. Such rings were prized and not given away lightly. Lachann wondered when the man had realized he had erred in his choice of lover and suspected it had been the night he had marked his own child.

She struggled a little when he took the ring from her. Keeping a firm grip on her, he pushed and threatened her until she gave them several items. One was a medallion that Lachann was sure Arailt’s kin would recognize. He was surprised the woman had not sold it yet. Vanity or the need to keep something set aside for the lean times, he supposed. He looked at Adeline as he shoved Anne back into her seat.

“Go,” he ordered. “Start on the path I showed ye and I will catch up with ye.”

“Nay, ye still need someone to watch your back,” Adeline said.

“I willnae kill the bitch.”

“I ken it. That danger has passed, but she is still a threat. The moment ye step out of this cottage, she will be screaming for men to come and help her, men to kill you.”

“All of whom will have to ready themselves and run here, then listen to what she says. In that time, short as it may be, I can be gone. I think ye may need a wee bit more time than that and I have a faster mount.”

She hated to leave him but knew he was right. The time had come to leave this place and, since they could not kill Anne, the woman would soon rouse men to hunt for them. Her ponies were not fast enough to outrun a man mounted on a large horse, and some of the hunters would get horses. It was best to get a good start in her retreat.

“Silence her then. A wee tap on the chin should do, although I wouldnae complain if ye broke her nose and stole away some of that beauty she uses so cruelly. I will be on the path ye showed me.”

Adeline did not wait to see what he would do. Anne’s gasp of shock and fear caressed her ears as she strode out of the cottage. The minute she reached Osgar and the ponies, she mounted behind the boy and kicked her sturdy little pony into a trot.

“Where is Lachann?” asked Osgar, twisting around to look behind him. “We cannae leave him.”

“We are nay leaving him,” Adeline said. “’Tis just that we may have to leave verra quickly and his horse can move faster than ours, so ’tis best we start out first.”

“They will take his head!”

It was a struggle to hold onto Osgar as he thrashed and twisted in an attempt to get off the pony. He started crying when she got a firm hold on him and they continued to put distance between them and the village. Now she understood the child’s occasional nightmares, why Osgar would grow so pale when he talked of how his father had not returned. He had seen the men return with his father’s head. Adeline fought the urge to go back and beat Anne until she was little more than a mess on her fine wooden floors.

She was several miles from the village and was thinking she might need to go back and rescue Lachann when she heard the rapid approach of a horse. Before she could fully conceal herself and her little group in the trees, Lachann rode up, slowing his mount to match the trotting pace of her ponies. He looked as if he had endured a hard race and she sighed.

“Ye didnae give her a little tap on the chin, did ye?” she said.

“I dinnae strike women, nay even murdering slatterns like her,” he said and then grimaced when he saw that Osgar was watching him. “It wasnae her that cried the alarum, however. Her wee son came in, saw me, and went screaming out of the house.” Lachann smiled a little. “I look enough like Arailt that the poor lad thought he was seeing a ghostie. I did give the woman a light slap that knocked her a little foolish, but she had recovered by the time I had mounted and was out there screaming for my blood.”

“How close are the ones who answered her call?”

“Nay close at all. There was a lot of confusion still even as I started my race to join ye here. I suspicion they have only just gotten themselves settled enough to start hunting us down and they dinnae have the skill of a MacNachton to see in this dark. Best we keep moving, though.”

They rode for a few hours before Lachann decided it was safe enough to stop for a little while and rest the horses. She watched as he studied the things he had taken from Anne. It was impossible for her to understand a woman like Anne, a woman who abandoned her own child to die and who ordered her lover killed. There had to be some punishment for that, yet she and Lachann did not have the power to deliver it. She hated to think that the woman would never pay for her crimes.

The respite was a short one. Lachann took Osgar up with him and they set out at an easier pace, needing to get to the shelter he had spoken of before the sun rose too high in the sky. Unlike Osgar, Lachann could abide only dawn and dusk but she did not complain. A long stretch of traveling followed by a long stretch of rest suited her better than the several short interludes she had employed. It was a more normal mode of travel even if the times of riding and resting were reversed.

She frowned as the sun rose and they rode up a slope that had little trail to ride on. When Lachann stopped and moved to the face of the rocky hillside to tug aside a large collection of brush, she frowned as an opening appeared in the rocky hillside. The man signaled her to dismount and she did so cautiously.

“A cave?” she asked. “Ye wish us to go into a cave? Arenae there animals in such places? Wolves and the like?”

“There are no animals in there.” He grinned at her. “Afraid of caves, Adeline?”

“Nay, I am just nay sure I want to spend the day in a cave. They are dark and damp.”

“They are also shelter from the sun, something both Osgar and I need. And any enemy that tries to attack us must first come through here.” He pointed at the opening, which did not look big enough to let his horse through without pushing the animal’s head down. “Nature’s own fortress.”

“Are ye certain there are no animals in there?”

“Verra certain. I can smell the beasties, ye ken, and I smell none. Nay, not even a faint scent of a bat.”

“Bats?”

“Get in the cave, Adeline. Trust me, it is safe and clear of all vermin and predators.” Except for me, he thought as he watched her reluctantly urge her nervous ponies through the opening.

Chapter Four

Tossing more peat on the fire, Lachann stared at the flames, his thoughts consumed by the death of yet another MacNachton. Outsider women were a curse. They were behind the deaths of far too many of his people, yet there were so few available women at Cambrun that there was no way to stop all the younger men from slipping away to seek them out. They sought mates and children as any man would. Even some of the older men, revealing that age and experience did not always bring wisdom. Arailt had been a good man. He had not deserved the fate dealt him by the greedy, heartless Anne. He had been robbed not only of his life but of the chance to see his child, a blessed gift too few MacNachtons were given, grow to be a man.

He was pulled from his dark thoughts by Adeline appearing at his side, a bowl of rabbit stew in her hand. Lachann had been so lost in his sorrow he had not even seen her dish it out from the pot hanging over the fire. With a nod, he took the bowl from her, as well as the crude wooden spoon she offered, and began to eat. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as she sat down next to him.

“I am sorry ye have lost a friend,” she said. “Were ye close?”

“Nay. He was older than I.” Lachann resisted the urge to tell her that Arailt had been a good thirty years older than his own tender age of nine and twenty. “ ’Tis just that too many are dying and all because they trust in some Outsider wench.” He was not surprised to see her scowl and wondered why he goaded her. Perhaps, he mused, he needed to hear her defend herself, to remind him that she was not like the others.

“Are ye waiting for me to betray ye then? To turn ye over to the verra men who hunt me and Osgar?” Adeline could hear her anger over his mistrust in her voice but saw no need to hide the fact that he insulted her with it.

“Nay, and I cannae think why. Ye are an Outsider.”

“I think I have guessed what ye mean by that but, mayhap, ye can tell me just what is an Outsider?”

“One who isnae of the MacNachton clan, of MacNachton blood.”

“How verra nice. Nay a friendly lot, are ye?”

“And why should we be friendly? ’Tis the friendly ones who are being slaughtered, the ones who try to live outside of Cambrun, to mix with the Outsiders and be accepted by you. And now we have the Hunters.”

Adeline sighed. “Ye dinnae need to remind me. There were men hunting Osgar, too.”

“Aye, and their numbers keep growing. ’Tis why we are all searching for the Lost Ones.”

“And the Lost Ones are like Osgar?” He nodded. “And the men who chase us and want to kill him are called the Hunters? A name and nay just a word for what they are doing?”

“Aye. We call them that. I dinnae ken what they call themselves. Some grand pretentious name, nay doubt, as they all claim they are doing God’s work. And, aye, Osgar is a Lost One, one born of an Outsider and a MacNachton but who was nay brought into the clan. Many dinnae e’en ken that there are others like them. That is, if they survive long enough to think on the matter. I suspicion Osgar isnae the first of his kind to be set out in the wood to die.”

Adeline shivered, her mind suddenly choked with the image of innocent children like Osgar tossed aside because they were different. She knew babes were discarded, especially if a family was too poor to feed another child or the babe was born with some deformity, but it was one of those tragedies of life she had given little thought to, would not allow herself to think about. Having seen what had been done to Osgar made it hard to continue to ignore such harsh realities. It took her several moments to remind herself that she could not save them all, could not possibly find where and when such innocents were set aside to die. She had saved Osgar and would certainly save any other child she might find. That had to be enough.

“Are there any of Arailt’s kinsmen, or women, left at Cambrun?” she asked, wanting Osgar to find family at his new home yet terrified of losing him.

“One. An aunt, but she is old,” replied Lachann after he swallowed the last of his meal. “I dinnae think she will be able to care for such a young lad, although she will be glad to ken that one of her blood still survives. She will grieve for Arailt but she was fair certain he was dead when a year passed with no word or sight of him.”

Lachann could read the fear on her face even though he knew she thought she was hiding it. She was worried about losing the boy yet she did not slow in her journey to take him to his clan, to people who could protect him better than she could. He opened his mouth to reassure her and quickly closed it again.

Now was not the time to offer assurances he might not be able to fulfill. Cambrun was not a place many Outsiders would wish to stay at. Nor was he certain he wanted her to stay there. His hunger for her grew stronger with each hour he spent in her company, but he had seen too much tragedy result from the pairing of Outsiders and MacNachtons to risk putting himself in such a position without a great deal of thought.

“Have ye saved many Lost Ones?” she asked.

“Nay enough. I dinnae care to think on how many were lost to us forever.” He shook his head. “I ken of far too many who left Cambrun and ne’er returned, too. The saddest thing is that we need new blood; we need Outsiders. Yet too many who try to join with one end up like Arailt.”

“Why do ye need us? ’Tis odd that ye would claim a need for people ye dinnae trust.”

“Our people, the full-blooded MacNachtons, the Purebloods, cannae conceive. We have wed amongst our own for too long. The only ones born to the clan now are ones born of a mating between a MacNachton and an Outsider.” A harsh laugh escaped him. “So there is a fine choice for us, aye? We die when we stay outside of Cambrun to find a mate and we die if we dinnae. We just do it a wee bit more slowly.”

Adeline could think of nothing to say to dispute that or comfort him, so she asked, “Are ye a Pureblood?”

“Nay. There is some Outsider blood in me that came through my mother. My great-grandsire brought it into the family, I believe. Unlike too many of the old ones, he actually kept an eye out for any child he might have bred on a woman and fetched it home. The reason we have Lost Ones is that too many of our men didnae do that. Why should they have? They didnae think they could breed children. It wasnae until one of our clan began to record everything he could about the clan and we found a Lost One that we realized we could breed a child, just nay with anyone of strong MacNachton blood. The man making the records bred one himself.”

Such a sad tale, she thought as she inched a little closer to the warmth of the fire. The cave they sheltered in was surprisingly well supplied but it was still a dank, cold hole in the rocks and that cold damp had sunk into her bones. So had the sadness, that hint of hopelessness, behind Lachann’s words. Adeline did not understand why the MacNachtons were as they were, but they were God’s creatures. It did not seem right that they faced such a bleak future, that their search for a mate, for children to carry on their name, too often brought them only death. It was such a simple wish, one shared by most people.

Then again, she mused, their differences made them a threat. She did not know the full extent of those differences but life with Osgar and her brief time with Lachann gave her a good idea of many of them. The need to drink blood was, of a certainty, the most alarming. She could easily understand how that could breed fear in people. That feral look both Osgar and Lachann got, those sharp fangs, only added to that fear. It revealed the predator under the skin. So too did Lachann appear to be a lot stronger and faster than other men. Those traits alone were enough to make people antagonistic to them but she suspected there were others. The only weakness she knew of was how they needed to avoid the sun. It was one that could be used as a weapon against them.

“But ye are safe at Cambrun, aye? And Osgar will be safe?”

“As safe as anyone can be and he will be cherished as all of our children are.”

Adeline nodded. It broke her heart to even think of leaving Osgar, but she would force herself to do it. Lachann had still not said that she had to leave once they reached Cambrun but he had not invited her to stay, either. She ached to ask him if she could, but bit back the words. If Lachann’s attitude toward those who were not of his clan was any indication, she might well find herself a very unwanted guest. She had already had a bellyful of being an outcast.

Deciding she could not think of that or she might grab Osgar and try to run far away, she turned her thoughts to the need to wash before she sought her bed next to a sleeping Osgar. A glance around the cave told her there was no privacy to be had yet she desperately wanted to wash away the smell of pony. She was going to have to trust Lachann to be a gentleman. It was either that or go to her rough bed smelling like her pony and she could not abide the thought of that.

“I need to wash,” she said and looked at him. “Can I trust ye to keep your eyes on the fire?” She blushed when he quirked one dark brow at her. “There is nary a spot in this cave where I can wash in privacy but I need to rid myself of the smell of pony.”

Lachann nodded. “I will keep my gaze upon the fire.” He smiled faintly. “Mayhap ye can save some of that water ye have heated for me.”

“Aye, I will.”

She quickly grabbed the heavy pot she had set by the fire to warm the water and gathered up what she needed to wash and to don fresh linen. The guilt she felt over using so much of the little water she had brought was easily banished. Adeline was sure she would be able to refill her small water keg soon.

The back of the cave was shrouded in shadows where the light from the fire did not reach. Adeline chose that spot for her wash, sighing a little over how meager a wash it would be. After a glance over her shoulder showed her that Lachann was staring at the fire as he had promised, she began to shed her clothes.

Lachann managed to hold to his word even as he heard her clothing drop. It was when he heard the silvery rustle of the water and the soft sighs she made as she washed that his control broke. Cautiously he turned his head just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye and caught his breath so quickly and sharply he nearly coughed and gave himself away.

Adeline might be small and slender, but she was womanly enough to tempt a saint, and he was no saint. Her hips were nicely curved, her buttocks taut and round, perfect for a man to grasp hold of as he loved her. Each time she bent to dampen the cloth she washed with, he could see the curve of her breasts, plump, round breasts with the nipples taut from the faintly chill air in the cave. His mouth watered with the need to taste them. Her skin was pale, glistening faintly where it was wet, and unmarked. She was beautiful, a temptation on two long, slender legs.

He turned his gaze fully back to the fire. His whole body ached with the need to go over there and touch her, touch that skin, and trace every womanly curve. It was going to take a while for him to rid his body of all the obvious signs of that need. It had been a mistake to sneak a peek like some untried lad just starting to be fascinated with women, he decided. The sight of her naked, of her slim, womanly beauty, was going to haunt him for a very long time.

By the time she rejoined him by the fire, Lachann was once again in control of his body. He frowned a little as he saw that her hair was wet. “Ye washed your hair?”

Adeline blushed. “I but rinsed it off in the pot. It wasnae easy, but I didnae wish to use all the water, so it seemed the only way to keep my word that there would be warm water for you and my hair would be cleaned. I left the rag to wash with and the drying cloth over there. The water was still warm but I could reheat it a little if ye wish.”

“Nay. ’Tis enough that it isnae as cold as the water in a loch or stream.” He stood up and grinned down at her. “I willnae make ye promise to keep your eyes on the fire. Look your fill if ye want.” He laughed when she glared at him and then turned her head to firmly stare into the fire.

A moment later, Adeline decided that the man was making a lot of noise on purpose. He was even singing softly to himself. She was trying to forget his words but hearing him shedding his clothes, knowing he was standing there naked, made it impossible. Look your fill if ye want, he had said. Adeline was ashamed to admit that she did want to look her fill but the very last thing she wanted was for him to see her do so.

As carefully as she could, she moved her head only enough to see him out of the corner of her eye, using the brushing of her damp hair as a shield for any movement he might perceive. She drew her breath in hard, but as softly as she could when she saw him. He looked a big, strong man in his clothes; without them he looked like some ancient god the pagans worshipped.

His back was broad and unscarred, the taut, smooth muscles moving gracefully as he washed himself. If asked before this moment, Adeline would have heartily denied seeing any fascination in the sight of a man’s backside. But one look at Lachann’s well-shaped rump had her swallowing hard. His legs were long and strong yet not thick with muscle. When he turned slightly to rub the washing rag over his belly, she saw his manhood. It was not nestled in the thick hair at his groin as the few she had glimpsed in the past when tending to sick men, but long, rigid, and standing slightly out from his body.

Quickly returning her gaze to the fire, even though she did not really see it, Adeline prayed she had not gasped. She had certainly felt like doing so. And why, she wondered, did the sight of Lachann MacNachton naked make her so warm, so unsteady in heart and limb? She was trembling as if she had walked about naked in the snow yet not because she was cold. In fact, if she did not shake the image of him from her mind, she would not be surprised if she started sweating.

A few deep, slow breaths later, Adeline was calmer. She knew she would not be able to forget what Lachann looked like beneath his clothes but she was confident that she could hide the knowledge she had just gained. Then he strolled over to sit down beside her and her heart leapt up into her throat. He was sitting too close. The heat of his body was infecting her, seeping into her blood. She set her brush down and clenched her hands in her lap, fighting against the urge to touch the smooth skin she had just seen. She wondered if she could move away without looking like a fool.

Lachann grinned at the pale flush on Adeline’s cheeks. He had known she was looking at him. It troubled him a little that knowing she was had excited him, sent desire burning through his veins. That had never happened before. Lachann was not sure he liked it. It was a weakness and could be used against him. A small voice in his head whispered that Adeline would never play such games but he silenced it.

He leaned closer to her, inhaling the clean scent of her. “Ye peeked,” he said softly, idly wondering what she would do if he licked her delicate ear.

“Nay, I didnae,” she hastily denied and was not surprised when he laughed, the heat of his breath against her ear making her shiver.

“Aye, ye did. I could tell.”

She turned her head to try and deny his accusation again, only to find their faces so close their noses touched. “Ye are a vain mon to think that a lass couldnae stare at a fire rather than at ye. I was brushing my hair.”

“And glorious hair it is.” He reached out and ran his fingers through the thick tendrils of her hair, fascinated by how the light of the fire made the red of her hair glow. “A delight to the eye.”

“ ’Tis a witch’s hair.”

“Nay. That is naught but foolish superstition. Just because it carries all the brightness and color of fire doesnae mean ’tis hellborn.”

The gentle stroke of his hands in her hair made Adeline’s heart beat so fast she feared it could burst. He was so close to her, his golden eyes warm and intense. If she leaned just a little bit closer she could touch her mouth to his, could taste him. Just as she began to push that wild thought out of her mind, he leaned closer to her. The moment he touched his lips to hers, she was lost in a maelstrom of sensations and emotions she had never felt before, nor fully understood. Her only clear thought was dinnae stop.

The voice of caution told Lachann to pull away. He ignored it. He threaded his fingers through her thick, soft hair and held her face close to his as he kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm, and he quickly grew unsatisfied with the gentle kiss they shared. He nudged at her mouth with his tongue and after a brief hesitation she parted her lips. The soft murmur of delight that escaped her as he explored the inner heat of her mouth was sweet music to his ears.

He could hear the rapid beat of her heart, the breathlessness that made her pant softly. Lachann released her mouth and touched his lips to her throat. Adeline tilted her head back in a gesture of surrender that had him desperate to push her down, to spread her lithe body beneath him. It was not until he felt the sharp ache in his teeth, realized he was but one heartbeat away from marking her, from tasting her hot blood, that he came to his senses.

Adeline found herself released and sitting by herself so quickly she suffered a moment of dizziness. She looked up at Lachann, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest glaring at the waning fire. There were no soft words, no hint that he had even kissed her with such heat and skill that she would have given him anything he asked for. A chill went through Adeline, pushing away the last of the heat he had stirred within.

“Lachann?” Adeline was not sure what to say or how to ask what had just happened without sounding like she was begging for more. Her pride would not allow that.

“That was a mistake,” said Lachann without looking at her.

Those four coldly spoken words hurt so much she nearly gasped from the pain. Adeline stood up and brushed off her skirts. She stiffened her legs when she swayed slightly, not wanting him to see any sign of her pain or weakness. What she had believed a wondrous thing, he saw as no more than taking a kiss from an easily available woman. Obviously he had suddenly recalled his role as her protector, or Osgar, and doused the fire she had felt in him. It could not have been a very hot fire, she thought bitterly, or it would not have died so quickly.

“I see,” she murmured. “As you wish. I will get some sleep now.”

“Do so. I will wake you and Osgar when it is safe for us to journey farther.”

Adeline smothered the urge to kick him hard in his handsome backside and walked over to where Osgar slept, innocent of the turmoil around him. She settled herself beside the boy with her back toward Lachann and pulled the blanket over them both. The way Osgar immediately snuggled up against her did little to ease the pain in her heart and the shame she was determined to banish. She curled her arm around his little body, rested her cheek against his soft hair, and closed her eyes.

Lachann stared blindly at the fire until he heard Adeline’s breathing become slow and even. Only then did he chance a look at her. He smiled crookedly when he saw that she kept her back to him.

He had insulted her, even hurt her. He had heard it in her voice. Lachann decided that was for the best, as it would ensure that she stayed away from him. Only then could he be sure that he would not give in to the insane urge to mark her. MacNachtons marked only their mates and he was not going to bind himself to an Outsider.

Chapter Five

Adeline wanted to pace. The effort it took to stand still made her muscles ache. She knew they needed supplies but she did not trust even this tidy village by a loch. Villagers quickly recognized a stranger in their midst and they all distrusted strangers, watched them closely. That was wise but it could also be a threat to any strangers passing through. Lachann had a lot to hide. It was dangerous for him to go anywhere that he would be watched closely. He had shrugged off her concerns, however, with an arrogance that had made her ache to hit him over the head with something heavy.

Guilt nearly choked her. It was her fault they needed supplies. She had not planned well for her journey, the food she had brought quickly disappearing along with what Lachann had carried with him. The excuse that she had never made a journey before was not enough to pardon her for bad planning. Adeline did not know why they could not just eat rabbit or fish until they reached Cambrun, either.

She sighed, staring at the village even though the increasing darkness made it difficult for her to see much more than faint lights in a few windows. Lachann had so easily ignored her concerns that she suspected he had done this kind of thing many times before. Raiding a village in the night, however, felt too much like thievery to her, and thieves were swiftly hanged.

Just the thought of Lachann in danger caused her heart to pound so hard it was painful and her belly to cramp with fear. Adeline did not understand her feelings for the man. She had known him for only four days and he had not been particularly friendly. Lachann made his mistrust of Outsiders all too clear and clung to it tenaciously, keeping a polite distance from them.

Except for that kiss, she thought and touched her mouth. She could still feel the warmth of his lips, the searing heat of his kiss, even two days later. Lachann had coldly declared that the kiss was a mistake and made it very clear that he had no intention of giving her another. Adeline badly wanted another, however, weak fool that she was. It puzzled her, for she had never been attracted to a man in all her two and twenty years. She did not trust men and yet she trusted Lachann with Osgar’s life, and her own. But all Lachann had to do was smile at her, something he had done little of since that kiss, and all the strength went out of her legs. Her wits went begging as well.

“Ye had best come back safe and hale, Lachann MacNachton,” she muttered.

“He will,” said Osgar from where he sat by her feet piling up little rocks. “He is a big, strong mon.”

Adeline looked at Osgar. “Big, strong men can still be hurt, my bonnie lad. But, aye, mayhap I worry too much.”

“Aye, ye do.” Osgar scowled. “I dinnae like villages. Bad people live there and always want to do bad things.”

“I am certain there are some good people there, too, Osgar.” Adeline sighed when Osgar looked at her as if she were completely lacking in wits. “I ken we havenae met any, sad to say, but I am certain there are some.” I just pray Lachann meets only good people if he has to meet any at all.

The sound of rustling leaves drew Adeline’s attention away from her concern for Lachann. She frowned, for there was no wind. It was also too much noise to be made by some small forest creature. She turned to look behind her and tensed. The Hunters had found them.

Three men rushed forward as she grabbed Osgar up off the ground. Adeline tried to run to the ponies but the men moved faster than she could. Cursing them, she struggled to hold fast to Osgar when one of the men tried to pull the child from her arms. She kicked the man, aiming for his groin but only catching him high on his thigh. The blow staggered him enough that for one brief heady moment, he loosened his hold on Osgar. Just as she tried again to move toward the ponies something very hard slammed into the side of her head.

Adeline stumbled and fell to her knees, the pain in her head blinding her for a moment. She cried out when Osgar was torn from her arms. The three men ran even as she tried to get to her feet, determined to go after them. Lachann would come, she told herself as she swayed on her feet, her vision clearing but the pain making her dizzy and nauseous. All she had to do was try to slow the escape of the men who had stolen Osgar so that Lachann could reach the men in time to save the child. She staggered forward a step and prayed she could regain her wits and strength in time to accomplish that.

Lachann hefted his sack of supplies more firmly onto his shoulder and almost grinned. He knew Adeline thought he had crept into the village to steal what they needed and he had let her think it. When they next halted their journey he would tell her the truth, that he had paid for everything. Old Beaton was a man the MacNachtons often dealt with on their travels. The man never asked why they came buying goods at such odd hours, nor did he talk about them. It appeared that his son was more than ready to continue that tradition, which would please the laird of Cambrun.

His good humor faded as he made his stealthy way out of the village. Adeline was tying him up in knots. He had never wanted a woman as fiercely and constantly as he wanted her. MacNachton men were taught to control the passions that could ride them as hard as the need for blood, but every time he looked into Adeline’s wide green eyes he grew hard with need. The warmth in her gaze told him that she returned his need and that made it almost impossible to fight the urge to take her, to make her his woman. The urge to mark her as his own was so strong it made his teeth ache, and that was what worried him the most.

“Fool,” he muttered. “Ye ask her to trust ye but ’tis clear that ye dinnae want to trust her in return. And just what has the poor lass done to make ye so wary, hmm? Taken to her heart one of the Lost Ones, a Blooded Son who takes a wee sip of her now and then? Saved the wee laddie’s life and put her own in constant danger? Left her own home to take the lad to a place many Outsiders say is naught more than a room in hell filled with demons? Ah, aye, such a treacherous lass she is.”

He needed to stop blaming Adeline for the sins of others like Anne. Lachann knew he also had to accept the fact that she was fated to be his mate. He knew all the signs, had heard all the tales. Every MacNachton was told the ways to recognize his mate. His fierce need to mark her after only a kiss was hard proof that Adeline Dunbar was his. It was not going to be easy to explain it all to her when he finally gave in to the need gnawing at his innards. And it was definitely when, not if.

The sound of Adeline cursing yanked him from his thoughts. Lachann fought the urge to forgo all stealth and caution and rush to her side. She was in trouble, and charging blindly into the midst of it would not help her. He moved with more speed but held fast to the silence needed to surprise an enemy. The sound of Osgar crying nearly broke his control.

By the time Lachann reached the place where he had left Adeline and Osgar he was eager for a fight, bloodlust pounding in his veins. Seeing Adeline swaying on her feet as she staggered in an attempt to go deeper into the wood only increased that eagerness. He put down the sack of supplies and grabbed her when she started to crumple to her knees. Osgar’s crying faded in his ears as fear for Adeline consumed him. He cursed viciously when she faced him and he saw the blood running from a wound on the side of her head.

“Ye are injured,” he said, the need to hunt down the ones who hurt her and his fear making his voice a harsh growl as the beast reared up within him.

“ ’Tis but a scratch,” she said as she steadied herself. “Head wounds always bleed freely.”

“Where is Osgar?”

“They took him. Three men. That way.” Adeline weakly pushed him toward the thicker section of the wood.

His fear for her receding when she sensibly answered his questions, Lachann could once again hear the men running through the trees and Osgar crying. He abruptly kissed Adeline and then started to hunt down the men who had stolen his child and hurt his woman. For the space of a heartbeat Lachann was startled by that thought. His child. His woman.

Then he realized that it was the truth, the truth he had been foolishly fighting since the moment he had seen them, seen her. Osgar was his child and Adeline was his woman. It was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders to finally accept that. Now he would see that the men who had hurt Adeline and stolen Osgar never left the forest alive.

The moment the men caught sight of him they separated, each running in a different direction, and Lachann cursed, knowing he would not be able to fulfill his vow. The frustration that surged through him nearly made him howl. He fought down the demands of his beast and set out after the man who held Osgar. Just as he came within reach of his prey the man turned and threw Osgar at him. Lachann easily caught the boy and watched the man run as if all the demons in hell were barking at his heels. The fool would be right if Lachann dared to put down the child clinging to him and go after the man, but he knew he could not do that.

“Did they hurt ye, Osgar?” he asked the shaking, sniffling child as he rubbed the boy’s small back.

“Nay, but one of them hit Maman and she fell down,” replied Osgar, rubbing his hands over his tear-stained face. “We got to go help her.”

“I ken it.” He sighed and muttered, “But I truly wished to kill those fools.”

Osgar patted his cheek with his small, damp hand. “Ye can do that after we help my mither.”

Lachann bit back a laugh. “I think we had best get her somewhere safe first.”

“Aye. Men shouldnae hit lassies.”

“Nay,” agreed Lachann as he hurried back to where he had left Adeline. “Men shouldnae try to hurt wee lads, either, but I fear nay all men learn those rules.”

The sight of Adeline sprawled on the ground made Lachann’s heart leap up into his throat. He put Osgar down and hurried to her side. The sound of her steady heartbeat made him nearly weak-kneed with relief. When he knelt by her side and looked at the gash on the side of her head some of that relief faded, however. Even small head wounds might bleed freely but, upon a closer examination, this one looked like a great deal more than a scratch.

“Did ye see what the mon hit her with, Osgar?” he asked the child.

“A big rock,” replied Osgar as he sat down on Adeline’s other side and patted her hand.

Lachann cursed softly.

“Is it bad?”

“I ken little about wounds, but it doesnae look good to me,” admitted Lachann.

“We can give her some blood. That always makes my hurts go away.”

“She isnae one of us, Osgar.”

“So it willnae help her?”

“It will, I think, but she may nay like it.”

“I dinnae like some of the things she gives me when I hurt or cough, but she stills make me take them. I can give her some of my blood.”

“Nay, if I think she needs it, I will give her some of mine. Now, let us bathe the wound and put a bandage on it. Do ye think ye can get me a clean rag and a wee bit of water?”

Osgar nodded as he scrambled to his feet. “I ken where she has her mending-people bag.” He ran toward the ponies with a speed and grace that firmly held Lachann’s attention for a moment. “I think I begin to ken why his father made him a Blooded Son,” he murmured, recognizing that the ritual marking had given the boy a lot of survival skills most young children did not have.

The moment Osgar returned with the bag and some water, Lachann tended to Adeline’s wound. When she did not rouse or even moan as he bathed and bandaged her injury, he grew worried. One thing he did know about head wounds was that they could do a lot of damage that one could not see. The whole side of her face was already bruising, the colors livid, and that also troubled him.

“Can ye ride the pony without help, Osgar?” he asked the boy.

“Aye, but I needs to go slow,” Osgar replied.

“We dinnae have far to go, lad, and if ye ride close to me I can lend a hand if ye have trouble.” Lachann picked Adeline up in his arms and then gently set her back down again so that he could settle Osgar on the pony and secure the bag of new supplies. “Nay, I think I will lash your reins to my horse so that all ye have to do is hold on.”

“Maman did that once. Have ye mended her?”

“We will see.” Lachann wanted to see Adeline awake and talking sensibly before he offered the child any assurances.

By the time they reached the cave where they would shelter for the day, Lachann had no assurances to give the boy anyway. He did not like the way Adeline’s breathing had grown unsteady, or the slower pace of her heart. With every yard they traveled she had grown weaker. Something was wrong. The blow to her head had done more than simply knock her senseless and open a gash in her scalp.

Lachann had Osgar spread some blankets on the floor and gently set Adeline down on them. He quickly built a fire and settled the animals. By the time he returned to her side, he knew he was going to have to do something more than bathe her wound and hope for the best.

“She is verra sick,” said Osgar in a quiet voice as Lachann handed him some cold chicken, cheese, and bread.

“Aye, laddie, she is,” Lachann replied. “Sometimes when a person gets hit in the head it can do things inside them that just keep on making them sicker and sicker.” He helped himself to some food and a hearty drink of cider. “As soon as I have filled my belly, I will do as must be done if she hasnae gotten any better.”

“She willnae get angry.”

“Ye cannae be sure of that, can ye? Ye havenae given her any of your blood to heal her, have ye?”

“Nay. She has ne’er had anything save a wee scratch or bruise.”

Seeing how the child’s bottom lip trembled, Lachann patted Osgar on the shoulder. “Dinnae look so afraid, lad. We ken how to help her and we will do it, will she, nill she. I think we are strong enough to endure her being angry, dinnae ye?”

“Och, aye. She just yells a wee bit, nay more.”

Lachann doubted Adeline yelled at the little boy very much at all, although he held little hope that she would restrain herself from yelling at him. He was going to make her take some of his blood even if she did sound and look a little improved by the time he had finished eating. The fact that she had gotten worse at all was enough to convince him to do it, and chance her anger, even her disgust.

When he returned to her side, Lachann was almost glad to see that she had not improved. It gave him a good reason for what he was about to do, one she could not argue with. He suddenly smiled, knowing that Adeline could argue about anything.

Gently biting his wrist, he held it against her mouth. If he could not get her to take any of his blood this way, he would mix some in cider and force it down her throat. Lachann would rather not do that but, as he waited for her to react to the moisture on her mouth, he knew he would. Adeline would survive. She would recover from this wound hale and as sharp-tongued as ever, he vowed to himself.

After a moment so long it felt like an hour, her mouth moved against his wrist. Lachann firmly grasped her chin with his free hand and tugged on it, forcing her mouth open enough for the blood to drip in. She made a face much like a child forced to swallow bitter medicine and he relaxed a little. Adeline had to be aware in some part of her mind if she could react like that.

The feel of her mouth against his wrist, the stroke of her tongue as she lapped at what her mind thought was much-needed moisture, made his innards tighten with need. He knew sharing his blood could be a sensual experience, as he had had a few lovers amongst the MacNachtons, but he would never have thought that giving his blood to an insensible woman could be so. It was. Too much so. He was almost sweating from the heat rushing through his body. Lachann suspected that if Adeline suddenly woke up and smiled at him, he would be on her like a starving wolf.

Lachann gave her only a little blood before he forced himself to pull away from her and lick at his wound until it began to close. He looked at Osgar, who sat down beside him, leaning on him lightly. The boy was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.

“Ye need to rest, lad,” he said as he stood up and began to make a pallet for the child.

“Maman will get better, aye?”

“Aye. I have nay doubt about it.” He smiled at the boy. “She is too stubborn to do anything else.” He did not hesitate to give the boy hope this time, for he had seen far worse wounds on an Outsider mended by a few sips of MacNachton blood.

“Then may I sleep in the wee room o’er there with Meg and Tom?”

A quick glance into the far corner of the cave revealed a deep, narrow niche in the wall. “Ye will be far away from the fire.”

“I ken it but it doesnae matter. I can see weel in the dark.”

Lachann nodded and went to make the boy a bed inside the niche while Osgar relieved himself and cleaned his teeth. After carefully looking over the opening to the cave and the tunnel at the back to assure himself that both were well sealed with rocks, he released the cats. He and Osgar laughed as the animals raced around the cave with such exuberance he was surprised they did not bounce off the walls. After he got the giggling Osgar settled in the poor bed, the cats quickly curled up around the child and Lachann made his way back to Adeline’s side.

“Ah, lass, ye have raised a fine lad,” he murmured. “He will have no trouble finding his place within the clan. Neither will ye but I have the strongest feeling that ye will need some convincing ere ye will believe that.”

Chapter Six

Another cursed cave, Adeline thought as she woke to find a stone ceiling over her head. She sucked a breath in through clenched teeth as she became aware of far too many bruises and pains. Her body felt as if someone had tossed her around a room and made certain that she hit every wall.

“Adeline?”

She looked to her right to find Lachann seated by her bed of blankets. “Osgar?” she asked, her fear for the child rapidly building as she recalled what had happened in the wood.

“He is fine,” Lachann assured her. “He is sleeping in his own wee room but feet away.”

“Room? But are we nay in another cave?”

“Aye, but there is a small room cut into the rock. Osgar claimed it as his room. The cats are in there with him.” He patted her hand when she looked at him in alarm. “They cannae get out of here.”

“If we can get in, they can get out, Lachann.”

“Nay. The way we came in is now fully covered with large rocks, the sort I can move but many another mon cannae. The only openings are small cracks to allow air in and the smoke of the fire out. There is a wee bolt-hole in the back of the cave but it is also completely covered with rocks. I am nay sure where it leads.” He grimaced. “Should have studied the maps more closely.”

“Maps?” Adeline asked, although she was distracted by how much better she was feeling except for a very odd taste in her mouth.

“Aye. We carefully map each route, the shelters that lie along it, and the places where we can get new supplies.” He carefully touched the bandage on her head. “How does your head feel?”

Adeline thought about that for a moment and then frowned. “Nay bad. And all the aches and pains I woke with are already fading away. The blow I took on the head must nay have been as bad as I thought it was.”

Lachann briefly contemplated not telling her about what he had done and then quickly cast the thought aside. Osgar would soon tell her if he did not. He took a deep breath as he prepared himself to make his confession. How she reacted to what he had done would settle whatever last doubts he had.

“I gave ye a wee bit of my blood,” he said. When he saw only confusion on her face, he continued, “One of the MacNachton differences is that we heal quickly.”

“Aye, I have seen that in Osgar. ’Tis wondrous,” she said.

“Weel, we have discovered that our blood can help to heal Outsiders as weel.” He sighed, his hope that she would fully accept him shattering as her curious expression turned to one of utter horror and fear.

“Sweet heavens, Lachann, ye best be verra careful who learns of that.” She shook her head slowly. “It chills me to the bone to think of the danger that would put ye, and all of the MacNachtons, in.”

He had been an idiot, he thought as he smiled at her and carefully removed her bandage, not surprised to find the injury healed. Adeline’s horror and fear were all for what could happen to him and his clan. Lachann decided that he needed to think more on the matings between Outsiders and MacNachtons that were good, solid, and happy, instead of only on the bad ones. He had committed the sin of prejudging her, just as so many people prejudged the MacNachtons, fearing and hating them without even trying to come to know who they were.

“ ’Tis naught to smile about, Lachann,” she said as she cautiously sat up, noticing that she was feeling better by the moment. “Ye would have trouble with far more than the Hunters if word of how your blood can heal e’er spread. Everyone would be after a MacNachton just to make use of your blood, to cure themselves or their loved ones, or to sell to make themselves wealthy and powerful. I shudder to think of the tortures that would be visited upon ye and your people. They would tap ye like a barrel of ale.”

Lachann leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then smiled into her wide eyes. “We ken it. We are all verra careful. We have e’en killed to keep our secret, although the ones who died deserved their fate for far more reasons than that. Several of my clan are now carefully studying the matter. My laird’s wife wonders if it works only when given freely, willingly, when there is a bond between the giver and the taker.”

“A bond?” Adeline sternly told herself not to let her own needs and desires make her foolish, make her see more behind his words than there was. “Ye think we have some sort of bond between us?”

“Aye, I do.” Lachann struggled to think of some way to explain without touching upon the fact that he was certain she was his mate, all his doubts about that having faded away with each passing hour. “Do we nay flee the same people? Do we nay face the same dangers? Are we nay both feared and distrusted by Outsiders? Do we nay both love that wee lad, would willingly die to protect him? I think all of that makes for a verra strong bond between us.” She could not completely hide her disappointment over his answer and that delighted him. “Do we nay feel the same need, the same desire, for each other?”

His low, husky voice warmed her. He did not speak of love or marriage, but, at that precise moment, she did not care. Lachann had just confessed that he desired her. The way he had ended the only kiss they had shared had made her begin to think that he did not feel the same fierce wanting that plagued her. Adeline’s heart pounded out the message that need and desire could easily grow into love. She ignored the more sensible part of her that warned her to tread slowly, that her heart could be blind and foolish.

“I think we do,” she answered quietly, ignoring the heat of the blush stinging her cheeks.

Lachann stroked her long, bright hair. “I ken we do. That kiss we shared told me so.”

“But ye thought it was a mistake and ye havenae tried for another.”

“Cowardice and unkind thoughts. Unfair judgments just because ye are an Outsider. I wanted ye to trust me but I wasnae willing to trust ye. Despite what ye have done for Osgar, a bairn who showed ye the beast within him from the verra first time ye held him in your arms, I allowed the sins of others to taint ye. That was wrong of me but it took a while for me to see that.”

Adeline nodded and smiled faintly. “Aye, it was, but I can understand the why of it. That doesnae explain why ye should call yourself a coward, however. That just isnae true. No mon who faces four armed men for a child and a woman he doesnae ken is a coward.”

“Facing four armed men is naught but a nuisance compared to facing what I felt when I kissed you. I was fiercely stirred by an Outsider female and that set me back on my heels.” That and the fact that he had ached to mark her as his own, but he knew it was too soon to tell her that.

“So, ye didnae kiss me again because ye didnae trust me, because I am nay a MacNachton.”

He winced to hear how his prejudice sounded when spoken so bluntly. “Aye, but I finally shook off that foolishness.”

Anticipation raced through Adeline’s veins when Lachann slipped his arms around her shoulders and tugged her closer to him. His beautiful eyes held a warmth that quickly seeped into her blood. Her mouth watered, eager for the taste of him again.

“I should leave ye be,” he whispered as he followed the delicate lines of her face with soft, teasing kisses. “Ye were badly injured today.”

“I feel as if naught happened to me, though I ken that my injury was far more serious than I had thought it to be.” She shivered with delight as he kissed her ear and then gently nipped the lobe, astonished that such a simple thing could make her so breathless.

“It was.” He moved back just enough to study her face. “E’en the bruising has faded to little more than a faint color.”

“ ’Tis wondrous.” She slowly wrapped her arms around his neck, a little afraid that he was thinking of leaving her again. “’Tis a shame that ye must keep it a secret, that people would prey upon ye for it instead of allowing ye to help them of your own free will.”

“Right now, lass, I dinnae think I want to discuss the wondrous healing power of my blood.”

“Nay? What do ye want to do?”

“First I wish to kiss you.”

“Oh, aye. Please.”

Lachann covered her mouth with his. He planned to seduce her slowly, gently, but the moment his lips touched hers all the hunger he felt for her broke free of the chains he had put on it. The way she softened in his arms, her lithe body fitting against his in eager welcome, only added to the sharp, demanding need he suffered. He had almost lost her and he ached to assure himself of how alive she was in the most primal of ways. Lachann wanted to revel in the sweet heat of her desire, to learn all the secrets of her body, and to mark her as his own.

“Adeline,” he groaned against her throat, “I think we had best cease. The tether on my desire isnae a verra strong one. I am but a heartbeat away from spreading your fine little body out beneath me.”

His rough words had Adeline nearly panting from the strength of her need. She wanted to strip him of his clothes so that she could touch his skin. She wanted to look at his strong body without having to hide her delight in it. Although she had never even kissed a man before now, she knew all that could be shared between a man and a woman. A healer saw and heard a lot. Despite a tiny pinch of virginal fear, Adeline wanted to share that with Lachann.

“Nay, kiss me again,” she demanded. “And again and again until I cannae breathe or think.”

“If I kiss ye again, I willnae stop until ye are fully mine.”

“Oh.” She trembled, passion tearing through her at the mere thought of what they were about to do. “I ken it. Kiss me again.”

Lachann growled softly and kissed her, making no attempt to govern his need. She did not pull away as he had feared she might but pressed even closer. When she tentatively parried the thrust of his tongue with her own, he cast aside all doubt and restraint and pushed her down onto the rough pallet. It took what little willpower he had left not to tear off the thin linen shift she wore, hurl aside his own clothing, and bury himself deep inside her.

It was not until she heard herself moan as Lachann kissed the skin between her breasts that Adeline realized she wore only her shift and he was rapidly removing that. Uncertainty pushed aside a little of the haze his kisses and caresses had clouded her mind with. She knew a man as handsome as Lachann must have had many women, beautiful women. Suddenly, Adeline was not sure she wanted to be naked, not even if he was also naked.

The sudden tension in Adeline’s body was enough to remind Lachann that he was dealing with a virgin. Her body had been untouched, and unseen, by any other man. He quickly finished removing her shift, allowing her no time to act upon her sudden attack of maidenly modesty.

Straddling her with his legs, he sat up and removed his shirt. He ached to remove his breeches as well but did not dare let her loose. The way her gaze settled on his chest, her green eyes darkening with renewed desire, made him inclined to preen, but he resisted the urge. He needed to be skin to skin to her, to feel her full, soft breasts against his chest. Even as he returned to her arms, he stealthily unlaced his breeches so that they would be easily, and quickly, removed when the time came to be free of them.

“Ye are so verra beautiful, Adeline,” he said and then he kissed her.

When his warm, smooth skin pressed against hers, Adeline lost all concern about her nudity; she began to revel in it. She wrapped her arms around him again and stroked his broad back with her hands. Adeline savored the feel of his taut skin and strong muscles. She tipped her head back as he kissed his way down her throat. He slid his hands up her rib cage and over her breasts, using his fingers to tease and stroke her nipples until she thought the aching he stirred there was too fierce to endure.

“Lachann!” she cried out in shock and delight when he took the hard top of her breast into his mouth, licking and suckling until she was half mad with need.

“Hush, love,” he said even as he continued to torment her. “Ye are a virgin.”

“And that is why ye must drive me to madness with this play?” she asked, a little confused by his statement.

He chuckled hoarsely. “Nay. I but prepare ye for your breeching,” he said and stroked his hand over her soft stomach and then between her legs.

The hot, damp welcome he found there nearly undid him. Lachann gritted his teeth, determined to hold on to enough control to stir her passion to such heights that she would feel no pain when he finally joined their bodies. He wanted to kiss her there, to taste her sweetness, but promised himself that delight later when she became more accustomed to having him as her lover. Such an intimacy done too soon could chill the desire she now felt. He plunged his finger into her heat and worked to prepare her for his entry. To his relief, she was ready for him, so caught up in passion’s snare that he knew it would not take long before he could seek his pleasure.

Adeline feared she was about to break apart. She had not realized passion could be so fierce, forcing everything within her to its will. Certain she was on the brink of madness, she called Lachann’s name and, suddenly, he was there, kissing her. She lost herself in his kiss, only faintly aware of how he spread her legs.

It was not until she felt him start to join their bodies that she was able to grasp some control of herself. A sharp pain made her gasp but then a heady surge of desire washed it away. They were now one. Adeline wrapped her legs around his trim hips and heard him growl his approval. He began to move and she quickly caught his rhythm. Her body grew taut and something curled tighter and tighter low in her belly until it was both a pleasure and a pain. She had the fleeting thought that something must have gone wrong with the joining and she shattered. As she tumbled down into a deep pool of blinding pleasure that had her calling out to Lachann, she felt another sharp pain—in her neck. The bliss that was sweeping over her increased tenfold.

Lachann groaned as Adeline’s body clenched around his as her release tore through her. Even as his own release shook him, he sank his teeth into her neck. The sweet, hot taste of her blood in his mouth combined with the hot clasp of her flesh around his had him emptying himself deep into her womb. She was still gasping and trembling in his arms when he licked the small wound on her neck, closing it. He knew, however, that this mark would never fade.

Adeline began to come to her senses as Lachann gently bathed her, wiping away the signs of her lost innocence. She blushed and closed her eyes, embarrassed by such an intimacy. A moment later he was beside her, pulling a blanket over them and then taking her into his arms. She looked up at him and suddenly recalled that second sharp pain she had felt before she had lost all ability to think. Touching the side of her neck, she felt a slight mark beneath her fingertip.

“Ye bit me,” she muttered. “Why did ye bite me? Do ye hurt?”

“Nay.” He kissed her and then turned her so that her back was pressed against his front. “The passion between us raged so hot, I couldnae help myself.” He inwardly sighed with relief when she relaxed against him. “Did I hurt ye?” he asked as he kissed her shoulder.

“Och, nay.” Adeline was glad they were not face-to-face as she admitted, “I was a wee bit crazed at the time and didnae e’en notice much more than a pinch.”

“Good.” He kissed her ear. “Rest now, love. We still have a lot of miles to go before we reach Cambrun.”

Love, she mused as she closed her eyes, more than ready to sleep. She wished he meant it.

Lachann smiled at how quickly Adeline fell asleep. He could not help but feel a touch of pride over how completely he had exhausted her with his lovemaking. Making love to her had been all he could have hoped for and more. He kissed the mark he had left on her neck. She was his mate. All he had to do now was figure out the right way to tell her.

Chapter Seven

Passion was a wonderful thing to wake up to, Adeline thought as she heartily returned Lachann’s kiss. Her body already sang with hunger for him, her blood pumping hot with demand. The dream she had been enjoying had obviously not been a dream. The kisses and caresses that had stirred her blood as she roused from sleep had been very real. When Lachann settled himself between her thighs, she wrapped her legs around him, eagerly welcoming him into her body. He smothered her cries with his mouth as they reached the blissful heights of desire as one.

Lachann grinned as he nuzzled her neck while his body recovered from their lovemaking. Adeline was a very passionate woman. Her desire ran as hot and fierce as his did. The satisfaction she gave him was unmatched by anything he had ever known before. Fate had chosen well when sending him his mate.

“I would love nothing more than to stay right here and make ye cry out in pleasure again and again, until we are both too weary to lift a finger, lass, but”—he kissed her—“ ’tis time to rouse Osgar, gather our things together, and be on our way.”

She stretched lazily and watched him as he dressed, fascinated by such a mundane thing and regretting the fact that he was covering that fine, strong body. It was difficult to believe that such a handsome man could desire her, but she could not doubt it any longer. Last night, their second night as lovers, had been as hot and fierce as the first. And now he had shown her that he was well pleased to wake with her in his arms.

Adeline shook aside such thoughts and hastily pulled on her shift. Now was not the time to indulge in them, to puzzle over all she had and did not have with Lachann MacNachton. There was work to do and Osgar would soon be awake. She did not really want to try and explain to the child why she and Lachann were sleeping together, naked. Just the thought of it made her hurry to get dressed and put away their rough bedding.

When they finally stepped outside into the gloom of a cloudy late afternoon, Adeline had to blink a few times. The sun was low in the sky, the clouds hiding it, but there was still more sunlight than she had seen since Lachann had joined her and Osgar. She prayed her future would not be one of continued darkness and caves. At least this time they had found shelter in a small stone house instead of a cave.

Somewhat relieved when Lachann took Osgar up before him on his horse, she mounted her pony and fell into line behind Lachann as he started down the hill. It was going to be nice to ride without having to worry about a child on the saddle in front of her. A part of her could not help but be fascinated by all she was seeing. She had never traveled far from her little cottage, so each sight was new to her. However, she was going to be very glad when they reached Cambrun and her journey was at an end. Hours in the saddle became tiresome very quickly.

They had been riding for several hours when Lachann abruptly signaled a halt. Adeline could tell by the way he sat so tensely in the saddle, his eyes closed, that he was listening to something she could not hear. She did envy him and Osgar their superior sight and hearing. She could think of many ways she could make use of such gifts in her life.

She tensed when Lachann dismounted, set Osgar on his feet, and then walked over to help her dismount, for she was certain they were not stopping for a respite. “What is wrong?” she asked.

“Mayhap nothing but I dinnae wish to ride on until I have had a look about,” he replied.

“Could we nay just take another path?”

“Nay, that will solve little. Ye just wait here, lass.” Lachann kissed her, ruffled Osgar’s curls, and strode away.

Adeline watched him until he was out of sight, admiring his long, strong legs and manly stride. She was annoyed with him despite her admiration of his form, however. Yet again he had left and given her no explanation as to why. He was always leaving her behind, telling her to wait. It made her feel useless, too much like a burden to him.

Yet, it was difficult to get very angry with him despite her annoyance over his actions. Adeline had to admit that she liked having someone to look out for her, to protect her and Osgar. She had been alone for too long, facing every trial and danger by herself, fear a constant companion especially after she had found Osgar. Her lover had taken most of that fear away and she certainly did not feel all alone now.

Her lover, she thought, and sighed. While the knowledge that Lachann MacNachton desired her was heady, she tried not to let his passion for her overwhelm her common sense. Passion did not equal love. A man could show desire to the most ragged, plain-faced wench and yet forget her before he finished tugging up his breeches. It had long been the way of men. Being Lachann’s lover for only two days did not give her any claim to his heart.

“Maman? Are ye going to marry Lachann?” asked Osgar. “Is that why ye sleep with him?”

Adeline inwardly cursed. Osgar had obviously woken up at least once and seen her and Lachann sleeping together. She heartily thanked God that the boy had not seen them when they were busy indulging their passions, and then turned her mind to the boy’s question. She could not lie to the child because he would undoubtedly share her lie with Lachann, if he did not call her on it first. Osgar had a sharp nose for a lie.

The problem came in how to tell the little boy the truth without hurting his growing accord with Lachann. Or, worse, making him disappointed in her. Osgar knew most of the rules society and the church espoused, but to him everything was black and white; there were no buts, no wee sins, and no mayhaps.

“I dinnae ken,” she finally answered, deciding honesty might not be comfortable for her but it was best, if only because Osgar would not let it go if she lied. “We havenae discussed it.”

Osgar scowled at her. “But ye were in the same bed. I saw ye and I dinnae think ye had any clothes on.”

“That doesnae mean we are married or soon will be.”

“Ye mean ’tis like Anne when she has men share her bed and doesnae marry them? Ye want to do that?”

“Nay!”

“If ye are cold, I could share your bed and then ye wouldnae have to let Lachann sleep with ye and then no mon can say any bad things about ye.”

“Oh, dear.”

Adeline shook her head and stared at her feet. She needed to think of a simple way to explain the situation, something a child of five could understand. Osgar was a very bright five, quick-witted and well spoken, but he was not old enough to understand the intricacies of passion and love. She frowned as she rethought that opinion. Osgar could understand love, and, if she swore him to secrecy, it might be the easiest way to answer his questions. Adeline knew that if she did not answer the boy’s questions to his satisfaction, he would only keep asking them.

“I dinnae share my bed with Lachann because I am cold, Osgar.” She took a deep breath and confessed. “I do it because I love the mon but I want ye to swear to me that ye will ne’er tell him so. If I think he needs to ken that, I will tell him myself. Understood?”

“He hasnae told ye so ye dinnae want to tell him.” Osgar nodded and then frowned in the direction Lachann had gone. “He should tell ye.”

“That would be verra nice and make me a verra happy woman, but he must do it of his own free will. ’Tis best that way, Osgar.”

“Well, when I am grown and sleep with a lass, I will tell her I love her right away.”

“Only if ye truly mean it.”

“Why would I lie?”

That question nudged too close to the topic of sex and passion, Adeline decided. “I dinnae think ye would. ’Twas but a rule I thought ye should be told of.” When Osgar solemnly nodded and turned his attention to all the sticks and leaves on the ground, she inwardly sighed with relief.

Adeline tried to be patient as she waited for Lachann but soon began to pace. She truly hated waiting when she knew how dangerous it was for a MacNachton outside of Cambrun. The last attack had made her certain that someone had started a hunt specifically to get Osgar, as well. She desperately wanted to get the child safely behind the walls of Cambrun.

Her legs ached from all her pacing by the time Adeline became truly worried about Lachann. He should have been back, either to report that everything was well or to get them hurrying away from this place. Something was wrong. She was sure of it, but she did not know what to do about it. She did not even know where he had gone, what he had heard, or what he had been looking for.

“I think something bad has happened,” Osgar said as he stepped up next to Adeline and clutched at her hand.

“I begin to fear the same,” murmured Adeline. “I just wish I kenned where he is.”

“I can find him.”

She frowned down at the child. “Ye dinnae ken where he went, either.”

“He went to where the men are talking.”

“What men? I dinnae hear any men.”

“I can. I closed my eyes and listened real hard like Lachann taught me and I can hear men talking.”

“What are they saying?”

“I cannae hear that. I can just hear the sound of men talking. Got to get closer to hear all the words, ye ken. I think that is what Lachann was doing. He wanted to see if it was bad men talking.”

Adeline argued with herself over the best thing to do now, the wisest thing to do. The wisest thing would be to go on to the next shelter, as Lachann had told her to do if he was ever late returning to them, and then wait for him there. She could not bring herself to do that, not even for Osgar’s safety. She knew she would never forgive herself if she fled while Lachann was in trouble. On the other hand, she would not forgive herself if Osgar were hurt, or worse, while she tried to help Lachann. Osgar’s tug on her hand drew her out of her confused turmoil of uncertainty.

“We must go find him,” Osgar said. “He needs our help.”

“We are nay warriors, Osgar. We are but a small woman and a wee lad.” She sighed. “And Lachann would be angry if we put ourselves in danger for his sake.”

“Why? He puts himself in danger for us all the time.” His bottom lip trembled. “And I love him. Ye said ye loved him, too. We cannae let him get killed.”

“Hush.” Adeline put her arm around the child’s shoulders and held him close to her side. “We will go the way he did but verra quietly and cautiously. We shall try to get close enough to the men talking so that ye can hear exactly what they are saying, but nary a step closer. If they have done something to Lachann, we will soon ken it and we can decide what to do at that time.”

It took only a few yards for Adeline to realize that little Osgar could move through the wood with a great deal more stealth than she could. She had never truly paid attention to how silently the child could move. Every time a leaf rustled as she walked, she felt as if she had just sent out a clarion call announcing her arrival. Osgar moved so silently she wondered if his feet were even touching the ground.

She was finally able to hear the murmur of men’s voices when Osgar stopped, held himself very still, and closed his eyes. The dark scowl on his small face told her that what he was hearing was not good. When a soft growl escaped the boy, Adeline realized that, although Osgar had been born of an Outsider like her, he was also a MacNachton to the bone. He was far more like Lachann’s people than hers and that truth hurt a little. When they reached Cambrun, Osgar might well be accepted so completely, so wholeheartedly, that he would have no more use for her.

“The men have Lachann,” Osgar whispered.

His words cut through her sudden fear of losing him to the MacNachtons. One for Lachann rapidly replaced that fear. The fact that the men had not immediately killed Lachann when they had a chance was not the cause for relief it should have been. Adeline recalled all too well Lachann’s tale about his cousin who had been captured and viciously tortured. He had made it very clear that no MacNachton wanted to be captured, that they would rather die, even by their own hand. It was not cowardice that prompted that dire feeling either, but the dread of being used to expose the tightly held secrets of the MacNachtons.

“I had best get closer,” she murmured.

“They want me,” Osgar said. “They are trying to make Lachann tell them where I am.”

Adeline sat down and put her head in her hands. She did not want to hear what the men were doing to Lachann to try to get him to give up Osgar. The child’s pale face and clenched fists told her all she needed to know. Lachann was a captive and he was being tortured. He must be loudly railing at the fates right now as he faced his greatest fear.

And who was there to help him? A healer and a small child. She was no warrior. About all she could do if she confronted several armed men was to give them a potion to incapacitate them. Adeline doubted the men would give her the opportunity to mix up such a potion or drink anything she might offer them. She might be able to gain Lachann a few extra minutes of life or a brief respite from the pain he suffered while the men who held him decided when they would kill her and how. She had brought Lachann nothing but trouble since he had first met her.

“I will go see what is happening,” said Osgar.

“Nay, I should do that,” she protested and hastily stood up.

“Nay, Maman. Ye are good at sneaking about but I am muches better. I will be back.”

Adeline reached out to grab him and stop him, but he was already gone. She bit back the urge to call him back and began to pace again. It felt as if hours crawled by but she knew it was her fear that caused that. Then, suddenly, Osgar was back, standing in front of her. She could tell by the feral look upon his usually sweet face that what he had seen had roused the predator Lachann claimed lived within every MacNachton.

“They have hurt him,” Osgar said, a growl of fury in his childish voice. “There are three men, the ones who tried to steal me and hit you. They have Lachann tied to a tree near the wood and they have been whipping him. He is bleeding.”

She knew all too well what that meant. Lachann had already lost so much blood he could no longer heal himself. He was truly weak and helpless now, or would be so very soon. She could not leave him. A glance at Osgar’s furious little face told her that the boy would never cooperate with her if she tried to flee, might never forgive her for it if she did. Then she looked back to where the ponies were, the ponies and a very large gelding she suspected had been well trained for battle.

“I think I may have an idea about how to help Lachann, Osgar,” she said. “Ye have to hide yourself verra weel while I fetch Lachann’s horse. ’Tis my thought that the horse can help us save Lachann.”

Once assured that Osgar was thoroughly hidden beneath the leaves, Adeline ran back to the horses. The gelding eyed her warily as she moved to his side. Adeline had never ridden such a large mount before but she could not see why she could not handle the mount, if only for the short time she needed him. Nudging the animal into a slow, quiet pace, Adeline returned to where she had left Osgar.

Osgar leapt from his hiding place and the horse shifted nervously beneath her. “’Ware, Osgar,” Adeline said as she dismounted but kept a firm hold on the horse’s reins. “Ye must nay startle a horse.”

“Pardon, Ulf.” Osgar stroked the animal’s neck.

“Ulf?” asked Adeline.

“Aye. Didnae ye e’er hear Lachann call the beastie by name?”

“I thought he but grunted at the beast. Now, heed me most carefully, Osgar. Tell me true, do ye think ye can creep up behind Lachann without being seen and safely use a knife to cut his bonds?” When Osgar eagerly nodded, she pressed, “Do ye tell me true, lad? ’Tis nay a time to say aye when the truth is mayhap or nay.”

“I can do it. I can. ’Tis like one of the games I played in the garden at home, aye? Sneaking up on an enemy, pretending I am a mighty warrior, saving poor Meg or Tom from bad men, and—”

“With a knife?”

“Aye.” Osgar blushed with guilt. “I did sneak a wee blade sometimes.”

“Your naughtiness will serve us weel this time, but later we will discuss it. Now”—she removed the sheathed knife belted at her waist and secured the blade to Osgar’s belt—“ye are to creep up on Lachann like the mist and cut his bonds. Stay hidden behind him as ye do so. Once ye have freed him, and he may tell ye when ye have done enough so that he can free himself, ye are to run back to the ponies.”

“But—”

“Dinnae question me on this. ’Tis verra dangerous work we are about and there can be no arguments or disobedience. Ye get back to the ponies and be ready to ride when Lachann and I join ye.”

He nodded. “But what will ye and Ulf do to help?”

“I will give ye a wee bit of time to get to Lachann and start cutting away his bonds.” She mounted Ulf and tested the ease with which she could draw the sword attached to the saddle from its sheath.

“And?”

“Ah, aye, and then I intend to ride to Lachann’s rescue, of course.”

Chapter Eight

“He isnae going to give us the lad. Best we just kill the bastard and start looking for the lad again.”

Lachann looked at the too thin, dirty man who spoke and was pleased when the fool paled slightly and stepped farther away. He also cursed his own folly, that arrogance that had him stumbling into a trap like some beardless boy on his first hunt. One solid hit to his head had quickly brought him to his knees, too dazed to fend off his attackers. A second blow had sent him tumbling into blackness. It was humiliating. Worse, he had bled enough that he no longer had the strength to break free of the ropes tying him to the tree.

“Give us the lad and we will let ye live,” said the burly man the other two men called Ian.

“What sort of coward would buy his life with that of a child?” Lachann asked, making no attempt to hide his scorn over even being offered such a deal.

He prayed that Adeline had the sense to take Osgar to the next shelter and wait for him there. It did not look as if he would be able to join them, but at least she and the boy would be safe. After a while, she would have to know that he was not coming to her and continue on to Cambrun. Lachann tried to find comfort in the sure knowledge that his clan would shelter them but it was hard to do so. Adeline and Osgar were his family now and he wanted to be with them. He wanted to see Osgar grow into a man and Adeline grow round with his child.

“We dinnae plan to kill the wee lad,” Ian said.

The man was obviously trying to be conciliatory, reassuring even, and Lachann almost told him that he was failing badly. These men might not have any plans to harm Osgar themselves, but Lachann was certain they intended to take the child to someone who did. It chilled him to the bone to think of Osgar in the hands of such men. After the torture his cousin Heming had suffered while held captive, no MacNachton wanted to become the prisoner of the Hunters. The whole clan could see how easily the secrets they held fast to could become known under such duress, if only through the close observation of their enemies. Lachann would rather cut his own throat or stand naked beneath the noonday sun than be taken captive.

A moment later, he inwardly sighed. He realized he would do anything he could to stay alive and get back to Adeline and Osgar. Lachann admitted to himself that he would fight for life until the last breath left his body, the hope that he could see them just one more time keeping him struggling to get home.

“Ye may nay kill him with your own hands, but the bastard ye take him to will, and weel ye ken it,” Lachann said and bit back the urge to scream when the man lashed him with the whip again.

“I told ye. He willnae give up the lad. This is useless,” said the thin, dirty man.

“Shut your mouth, Keith,” snapped Ian. “Mayhap he willnae give up the lad but dinnae forget the witch who rides with him and the boy. That lad isnae her child, so she may be willing to deal with us. She may nay wish to lose her lover, aye? Fine braw laddie like this. He be the type the lasses all sigh o’er, too witless to ken that he is naught but a beast from hell. We will wait awhile to see if the witch comes after him.”

A surge of fear cut through Lachann’s pain and he nearly cried out from the strength of it. He knew Adeline would never offer these men Osgar in trade for him, even if she could be so foolish as to think they would actually let the both of them leave that exchange alive. What he could not be sure of was that she would leave him to his fate and get the child to safety. He told himself she would think of the child’s safety first but, in his heart, he knew there was a good chance she would try to save him. All he could do was pray that she did not. Stay away, he silently told her. Run. Grab Osgar and run as far and fast as ye can, love.

“And what if she doesnae come after him?” asked Keith.

“Then we will truss this bastard up and take him to the laird instead,” replied Ian. “We willnae get as heavy a purse as was promised for the boy but I suspicion he willnae toss this one back. He is always looking for one of his ilk. Any MacNachton is a prize he will pay for.”

Lachann was about to ridicule that plan when he felt a slight tug on the ropes that bound him to the tree. His heart leapt into his throat, fear and anticipation warring in his heart for dominance. He slowly took a deep breath and then silently repeated every curse he knew. He recognized that scent. It was not Adeline slowly cutting his bonds; it was Osgar. The prize these men wanted so badly was now within their reach and it terrified Lachann.

In a voice so low he knew only Osgar would be able to hear him, he asked, “What are ye doing here?”

“Saving ye from the bad men,” Osgar replied in the same low tone.

“Get away from here and make certain that fool lass goes with ye.”

“Nay. We have a plan.”

Lachann was about to deride that plan, whatever it might be, in terms that would vastly improve the child’s knowledge of unacceptable words when the ropes around his ankles loosened. The three men continued to bicker amongst themselves over the best way to gain their prize or, in failing that, use him to gain some reward. They had no interest in his bleeding carcass for the moment. Hope swelled in him, but Lachann fought to keep his wits sharp, to carefully consider what his next step would be once he was free.

A faltering one, he thought with fury and despair. He had lost too much blood, his strength waning with each drop that soaked into the ground. And he feared the ground was where he would soon be once his bonds were cut, for they were undoubtedly all that kept him standing. Lachann also feared he would be of no help if Adeline and Osgar’s plan failed and they were in danger. His mind all too readily presented the many fates that could befall a beautiful woman in the hands of these men and the fate that Osgar was facing if caught, but he forced them away. Letting himself fall prey to such imaginings would be of no help at all.

“Where is Adeline?” he asked, trying to move his lips as little as possible as he kept his eyes on the men. If they thought he was talking they might draw closer to find out why, or to whom.

“She will be riding to the rescue soon.”

Riding to the rescue? In his mind’s eye, Lachann saw Adeline charging into camp on one of her small ponies and cursed under his breath. She would not be so foolish, would she? The ponies were sturdy but little threat to anyone. One of the men could simply snatch her out of the saddle as she trotted by.

The last of his bonds fell away but Lachann held himself in place. He hoped that he would soon overcome the urge to fall to his knees. Then Osgar pressed something into his hand. Dazed, Lachann realized it was the hilt of the sword he had been wearing when he had been captured. Although he was proud of the boy’s stealth in retrieving it for him, dismay swept over him. He should have heard or seen the boy slipping amongst the enemy’s horses and belongings to steal the sword. The excuse that his attention had been fixed upon his captors was judged by his mind and declared a thin one. Taking a deep, slow breath, Lachann fought to steady himself. To prepare himself to be at least some help to Adeline when she appeared.

And just where is the foolish woman? he wondered.

An ululation suddenly filled the air. His keen ears told him that it came from the south of the camp but he could not wholly blame his captors for looking in every direction. The clear, strange battle cry echoed and swirled around them. A heartbeat later the sound of pounding horse hooves came out of the dark. Curse her beautiful eyes, Lachann thought as he braced himself for whatever pitiful defense he might be able to offer, she is on my horse! No pony could make that much noise no matter how hard and fast it was ridden.

He was just moving, raising his sword in preparation for battle and heartily cursing the weakness that made his arm shake, when she burst into the camp. Adeline was leaning over Ulf’s strong neck, holding the reins in one hand and his spare sword in the other. Her thick hair was untethered, flying around her like a blaze fanned by the wind. Lachann suspected he was staring at her in as gapemouthed a way as the other men were. She looked glorious, like some ancient warrior queen.

Ulf reared when she pulled on his reins, his lethal hooves coming down on one of the men now running for his life. Lachann watched as Adeline struggled to control Ulf, her determined expression turning to one of horror as the man screamed. The other men ran for their horses, leaving their friend behind.

Lachann took a step forward, fell to his knees, and cursed. He was armed, eager to fight, but utterly useless. To his astonishment, the man he thought had died beneath Ulf’s flailing hooves rolled free of the threat, and then ran for his horse. His stumbling gait revealed that he had not escaped unharmed, however. By the time Lachann looked toward Adeline again, she had calmed Ulf, sheathed the sword she had been waving around, and was dismounting with a distinct lack of grace. That awkward dismount completely shattered the image of Adeline the warrior queen. He did not know whether to laugh at the absurd but successful rescue she had accomplished or yell at her for the risks she had taken with her own and Osgar’s lives.

“Oh, Lachann,” Adeline cried as she stumbled to a halt in front of him. “They have whipped you!”

Her outrage touched him but he shook aside the feeling and clumsily sheathed his sword. “Help me to my feet, lass. We need to get away from here.”

Even as she did as he asked, she said, “But they have all run away.”

“Aye, but they may pause to grow a new backbone and come back. Get me on Ulf and later we will have a talk about ye riding my horse.”

He was not surprised when she ignored his threat. He needed help just to stagger over to his horse. One look at his saddle and he knew he would need her help to mount the horse as well. Lachann sighed in resignation as she pushed and steadied him while he crawled up into the saddle. She stood and stared at him, biting her lip in indecision for a moment, and then held out her hand to him.

“Best ye get in front of me, lass,” he said. “I am nay sure I have the strength left to take the reins.” It tasted bitter just to make that admission but Lachann could not allow pride to put them all in danger.

Adeline could see how that confession had stung his pride. She was glad she had not spoken her thoughts about his weakness. It was best if he saw it for himself. She was just very glad that he had.

She pulled herself up into the saddle in a graceless way that would have undoubtedly made him laugh if he were not in so much pain. Taking the reins, she rode toward where Osgar waited with the ponies, Lachann leaning heavily against her back. It was terrifying to see how weak this large, strong man had become. Adeline buried her fear for him and fixed her mind on getting them all to shelter as quickly and safely as she could.

“He needs blood, Maman.”

Fixing closed the last shutter on the windows of the small cottage, Adeline hurried to the bed where Lachann sprawled. He had stayed conscious enough so that she and Osgar had been able to get him onto the bed and only then had he given in to the unconsciousness that must have been lurking for a long time. It had not been easy to strip him of his clothes and bathe and tend his wounds. She had hoped that that would be enough to help him heal, but Osgar was right. Lachann was going to need blood. Adeline touched the mark on her neck and prayed she could do it with the calm detachment of a skilled healer.

When she reached Lachann’s side, he was awake, staring at her, and she knew he would not ask it of her. That meant that the decision would have to be hers alone. She would have to freely offer what he needed. It puzzled her that she hesitated, for she never had with Osgar.

“I can give him some of mine,” said Osgar.

“Nay, I willnae drink from a child,” said Lachann.

“Of course not,” said Adeline as she sat down on the edge of the bed and held out her arm. “Such a wee lad wouldnae have enough for ye anyway.”

“Are ye certain, lass?” Lachann asked.

The weak, husky tone of his voice banished the last of her reluctance. “Aye. Just like Osgar, ye need it to heal.”

He drew her wrist to his mouth and kissed it. It was just a simple kiss but she felt as if it was a benediction of some kind. Adeline winced as he sunk his teeth into her flesh, but then the heat began, curling through her body and stirring to life all her passion for him so rapidly it made her a little unsteady. His dark gaze remained fixed upon her as he fed and she was unable to look away. By the time he was done, she was almost panting and the way he licked the wound to close it made her shiver from the strength of her need for him. Embarrassed by her own weakness, she gently pulled away and hurried to prepare something to eat.

Lachann watched her as he felt his body immediately begin to heal itself. He had seen her arousal in her eyes, in the light flush upon Adeline’s fair skin, and heard it in the way her heartbeat had increased. It had tasted sweet, flavoring her blood with Adeline’s need for him. It was a need he shared and intended to feed as soon as he was strong again. By the time she brought him some bread and stew, he was able to sit up and feed himself. The way she blushed every time he looked her way told him that his desire was no secret to her.

Adeline was coming down from the small loft where Osgar now slept when she was caught by the waist and carried toward Lachann’s bed. “I can walk, Lachann,” she protested with a laugh.

“Nay fast enough,” he said as he dropped her on the bed and then sprawled on top of her.

“Ye are all healed now, are ye?”

“Aye, and now I wish to celebrate my health and freedom.”

She opened her mouth to tease him and he kissed her. All thought of play fled her mind as passion swept over her. Lachann had them naked so quickly she fleetingly wondered if her clothes were still whole. Then she lost herself to the wonder of his touch, to the sensation of flesh against flesh, and bodies uniting. A tiny still sane part of her mind reveled in the way their cries blended as they found their release as one. When they soared to the heights together it only made it all the more intense.

Adeline faintly murmured a protest when she felt Lachann move away from her, not sure how much time had passed and not really interested in knowing. She squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment when he washed them both clean and then wrapped her arms around him when he climbed back into bed. At first, she idly enjoyed the soft caresses and kisses he treated her body to. It took several moments for her to realize those touches were not idle ones and her body was rapidly warming to them. By then Lachann was kissing her stomach, his clever fingers slipping between her legs to torment her.

The heated touch of his mouth replacing his fingers had Adeline opening her eyes wide in shock. The protest she began died quickly. With every stroke of his tongue, fire flared through her veins, burning away all resistance. All modesty fled as well as she writhed, his intimate kisses driving her wild with need. She called to him to join her when she felt her body tightening, to share the bliss that was swelling inside of her, and cried out with relief when he joined their bodies with one fierce thrust.

Lachann gently stroked Adeline’s back as she lay limp and sated in his arms. He kissed the mark on her neck and began to lecture her concerning her actions, for although her rescue of him had been successful, she had put herself and Osgar in danger. Ignoring her muttered complaints, he scolded her for not doing as he had ordered, for not taking herself and Osgar to safety, for riding his horse like a madwoman, and for waving around a sword she did not know how to use. By the time he finished she was so stiff in his arms, he was surprised he did not hear a few bones snapping. Lachann decided the only sure way to mend that and soothe her was to make love to her again and he proceeded to do so.

The last clear thought Adeline had before sinking into a sated, exhausted sleep was that Lachann was a sneaky devil. She promised herself she would tell him so when she woke up.

Staring down at a sleeping Adeline, Lachann thought his heart would burst with the strength of the joy that filled it. He was alive. His body was healed and now happily sated. He kissed her cheek and settled her comfortably in his arms.

The only problem facing him now was telling her that she was his mate. Perhaps he should have slipped that information into his lecture, he mused, and smiled. There was still time, he told himself as he closed his eyes. Even if he failed to tell her until they were at Cambrun, there would still be time. If nothing else, Adeline would not just set Osgar down at Cambrun and then walk away.

Chapter Nine

“Cambrun.”

Adeline blinked in surprise. One moment they were riding through a mist so thick she wondered how Lachann could know where to go. The next, a massive stone castle that seemed to grow out of the mountain itself loomed in front of them. Its dark, high walls threatened all comers even as they promised safety to any who were allowed to shelter behind them.

“It is huge,” she whispered, wondering just how many MacNachtons lurked behind its sturdy, wellmanned walls.

“Aye,” said Lachann. “And safe. It was built to shelter us from our enemies, including the sun.”

“Can none of ye bear the sun?”

“Some can. We all test ourselves and those of us with a wee touch of Outsider blood can bear a bit more than a Pureblood. For nearly forty years now we have been trying to breed out some of the more, weel, constricting traits of our clan. We decided to seek Outsiders as mates. Unfortunately, there is some danger in that, especially since the Hunters came. But there are women and one mon within those walls who are Outsiders wed to MacNachtons and the children they have bred can abide some sun, a few more than others. Many of the Lost Ones can also abide some sun.” He shrugged. “It was the laird’s idea. A way to solve our childless state and give us people who can mix weel with the world surrounding us. That world inches closer every day and we need to be able to slip in and out of it without too much risk.”

“Is his plan working?” she asked as they rode through the huge iron-studded gates of Cambrun.

“Slowly. Verra slowly. And, we begin to think we will ne’er be able to breed every trait out of our bloodline.”

Before she could ask how he felt about that, if he actually wished to breed out every trait, they were surrounded by people. Adeline was a little unsettled by how beautiful the women were and how handsome all the men were. Were there no plain-faced MacNachtons? she wondered a little crossly as Lachann caught Osgar up in his arms, dismounted, and set him down on the ground. He then came and helped her dismount.

When Osgar was presented to his kinsmen, the cheers that sang out through the bailey warmed her heart even as her fear of losing him to this clan choked her. Lachann caught her hand in his and kept her at his side as everyone struggled to welcome Osgar. It was as if some long-lost princeling had returned home to save the kingdom.

Lachann called for quiet and then told Osgar’s story. There was no surprise when he told of Arailt’s death, but Adeline could see the signs of grief and anger over the loss in many of the faces. The crowd parted when Lachann finished and a tall, handsome woman with streaks of white in her hair stepped forward.

“So my nephew is dead,” said the woman as Lachann bowed to her.

“Aye, Nan. Nearly two years past he died at the hands of some fools sent after him by his lover,” replied Lachann. “I had no time to make her pay for her crime. I am sorry.”

“Nay, I have done my grieving. I kenned he was gone and I want no more of ours lost in avenging him. I felt it in my heart and soul when he died.” She looked at Osgar. “But he is not completely gone, is he? He left a part of himself behind. A fine lad with much the look of Arailt about him.”

“He is a Blooded Son, Nan.” Lachann nodded at the shock Nan and others could not hide. “Arailt kenned that he was in danger, that his woman had betrayed him, and that the journey here to get help would be a treacherous one. He thought to protect the boy and give him skills to protect himself.”

Nan knelt down and touched Osgar’s cheek. “And it worked.” She looked at Adeline. “Those skills and this young woman have kept the last of my bloodline alive to return to Cambrun.” She stood up and kissed Adeline on the forehead. “I thank ye, Adeline Dunbar. I but ask that ye let me help in the raising of him.”

Adeline was speechless and could do no more than nod. Lachann had said nothing about keeping her with him at Cambrun, but this woman clearly believed that she would remain with Osgar. It was what Adeline wanted but she feared that if Lachann tired of her and set her aside, even Osgar’s presence in her life could not make Cambrun a home to her.

“If it pleases ye, Nan, I would claim the boy as mine and raise him to make ye proud,” said Lachann.

“That would please me weel, Lachann, but what does young Osgar say?” Nan smiled at the boy.

“I would like that,” Osgar said and grinned up at Lachann. “A lot.”

Adeline was still reeling from Lachann’s announcement as she was taken away to a room where a hot bath awaited her. She sank into the water with a sigh of pleasure, but her thoughts would not be still so that she could fully enjoy such luxury. Resting her head against the edge of the large bathing tub, she stared into the fire it was set in front of. Lachann had claimed Osgar as his own before all the MacNachtons gathered in the bailey. But he had not claimed her.

“Why didnae ye claim my mither, too?”

Lachann shook aside his concerns over how pale Adeline had been when she was led away and looked at Osgar. The boy, as freshly washed and clothed as he himself, sat beside him at a table in the great hall enjoying a hearty meal. Perhaps Adeline just needed to hurry and join them, he thought, and then wondered why she was taking so long at her bath.

“What do ye mean, Osgar?” he asked.

“Ye claimed me but ye didnae claim my mither.”

“Of course he did, child,” said Nan as she placed some fat blackberries on Osgar’s plate and covered them in thick, sweet cream. “Every MacNachton who saw her saw that. The mark was clear to see.”

“What mark?” asked Osgar.

Lachann felt the heat of an unaccustomed blush upon his cheeks as everyone stared at him. The men looked amused and sympathetic, the women cross and obviously disgusted with him. Poor little Osgar just looked confused.

“Oh, Lachann.” Bridget, the laird’s wife, shook her head. “Ye will have some groveling to do now.”

“I ken I should have told her ere now but it isnae an easy thing to tell an Outsider. ’Tis nay something they can understand and I wished her to become more accustomed to what I am.” It was a weak defense and he really did not need Bridget’s or Nan’s looks of feminine disgust to tell him so. He had been a coward but he would rather be tied to stakes under a noonday sun than admit to that.

“She has raised and protected a Blooded Son for two years, took him into her home and heart. And, Osgar, did ye not say that ye fed from her at your verra first meeting?”

Osgar nodded. “Anne had cut me, so I bled a lot. It was so the beasties could find me quick. It was healing but I hurt. I ken now that I should ask first. She fed Lachann, too, when he was hurt.”

Lachann rolled his eyes when the women scowled at him. “I didnae ask. She gave willingly. I had lost too much blood due to the gentle persuasion of my captors and was dangerously weak. I couldnae e’en help in my own rescue.” He reluctantly told the whole tale and had to join in the laughter it caused, for, looking back, humiliating or not, it was funny. He did not think he would ever forget the sight of Adeline charging into that camp.

“Lachann, tell her now,” said Bridget. “She needs to ken it and the more I hear of how she cared for Osgar and you, the less I think she will be shocked by how ye marked her. Or by any of the other things she will need to ken as your mate. S’truth, I think she will be most pleased. After she recovers from her anger over your silence, of course.”

“Did ye nay see her face when ye claimed Osgar before us all?” asked Nan, shaking her head when Lachann just looked at her in confusion. “Ye claimed her boy and that shocked her, but I am thinking it was far more than that which had her looking but one breath from collapsing at your feet. Ye claimed Osgar but ye didnae claim her. That is how she sees it since ye havenae told her what the mark means. Ye have left her wondering what her place is now that ye have openly taken the boy she loves as her own son.”

Lachann looked at his laird, hoping the man would scoff at such thoughts and ease the increasingly tight knot in his gut. Cathal looked much as he had when he had first wed Bridget about thirtyfive years ago. Miraculously, so did Bridget, even though she had no MacNachton blood at all. Mating with a MacNachton appeared to give the mate the same incredible longevity MacNachtons enjoyed. It was something they were still researching and yet another thing he had to tell Adeline about. When Cathal just smiled and nodded his agreement with all the women had just said, Lachann cursed.

“Dinnae ye want my mither?” asked Osgar and then started to look alarmed. “Ye willnae send her away, will ye?”

“Nay, never,” vowed Lachann and he leapt to his feet. “I will speak to her now.” He stopped at the doorway and turned to look back at the members of his clan gathered in the great hall. “One last thing, something that has begun to disturb me greatly and preys on my mind. We have all heard this laird spoken of by the Hunters before and most of us think he may be the leader of the fools, aye?” A rumble of agreement went through the hall. “Mayhap ye can all put your minds to the puzzle of why the mon was trying so hard to get his hands on Osgar, offering a big bounty for the boy.” He nodded at the silent, grim-faced clan members staring at him. “Was it just Osgar or is it a MacNachton child he seeks?”

“We will definitely discuss it,” said Cathal, his voice hard, almost a full-throated growl. “Now, go and soothe your woman. She might try to flee. Outsider women can have some verra strange turns to them.” He grunted and then grinned when his wife hit him in the belly.

“She willnae be going anywhere,” said Lachann. “I will tie her down if I have to.”

“I have some verra fine, verra soft, silken bonds I can lend ye,” called out Jankyn. “They work verra weel on a mate, e’en if she isnae mad at ye.”

Jankyn’s wife Efrica’s outraged response to that could be heard clearly over the laughter as Lachann left the hall. He knew his kinsmen would soon return to the problem he had just presented to them. There could be a growing threat to the one thing all MacNachtons prized above anything else, the precious gift that had been denied them for too long—their children. He wondered if the Hunters would soon become the Hunted.

He stepped into his bedchamber and looked at the tub set before the fire. Adeline was still in it, her head resting against the rim and her glorious hair hanging over the edge. Lachann quietly shut the door behind him and walked over to the bath. His heart clenched with guilt and regret when he saw the tears on her face, for he knew it was his fault that she was so unhappy, perhaps even hurt.

“Adeline,” he said quietly as he crouched by the tub and lightly stroked her hair.

Adeline nearly cursed and hurriedly wiped away her tears. It was just her bad luck to be caught while still deep in her misery. She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her breasts, suddenly embarrassed by her nudity.

“Ye shouldnae be here,” she said. “I am in my bath.”

“Which has grown cool.” He grabbed one of the large drying cloths, stood up, and held it open. “Come out of there. We need to talk.”

Not wanting to have a serious discussion while naked, Adeline quickly stepped out of the tub. Instead of wrapping her in the drying cloth, however, Lachann slowly and meticulously dried her off. By the time he was done and grasped another large drying cloth to wrap her in, Adeline was not sure she had the wits left to have any discussion at all. Even the self-disgust she felt over how easily she melted beneath his touch did not cool her ardor by much.

Lachann walked over to his bed and sat down, settling Adeline on his lap. He badly wanted to make love to her but knew he had to talk first. If she was going to be angry with him, she would be even more so if he took his pleasure of her first, for she would rightly see that as a trick of some kind to lull her into accepting what might not be acceptable to her.

“Adeline, why were ye crying?” he asked.

“I got some soap in my eye, is all,” she muttered, refusing to look at him.

He grasped her by the chin and forced her to face him. “Such a poor liar ye are. Ye think I have taken the lad but nay ye, dinnae ye?”

“Osgar belongs here. These are his people. Nan was kind to suggest that I could stay and raise Osgar but—”

“Nay, no buts. That is what ye will do. Why do ye think I so openly claimed Osgar? It was so that there would be no question of ye having a place in his life. Nan is too old, has been too much alone, to suddenly take on the care of a small boy. He would have been fostered within the clan and I made my claim, got her approval, before anyone else could step in and do so. Since ye are nay his blood kin, ye would have no power to change that. Now ye do.”

“Because ye say it is so?”

“Aye, and nay. It is so because ye are mine.” He kissed the mark on her neck when she frowned. “Have ye nay wondered why this mark hasnae faded away?”

Adeline looked at the wrist he had fed from and saw no hint that he had ever sunk his teeth in there. Then she touched the mark on her neck. It should have faded. There should be no mark at all, if all her experience with Osgar and now Lachann told her right.

“Why hasnae it faded away?”

“Because it is the mark a mon gives to his mate. Everyone who saw ye today saw that mark and kenned that ye were my mate. I had already claimed ye in their eyes.” He nodded when she stared at him in open-mouthed shock. “Best close that bonnie mouth, lass, or I will be kissing ye and we will ne’er finish this talk. ’Tis past time we had it and I need to get it all said.”

“A mating mark? Ye gave me a mark that says we are mated?”

She did not sound angry, just confused, and Lachann breathed an inner sigh of relief. “That first time I kissed ye I ached to give ye that mark. ’Tis why I backed away so quickly. I still distrusted Outsiders and I didnae want to mark one. But I couldnae stay away long, could I? And, yet, I kenned that ’tis difficult for someone outside the clan to ken what the mark means and I hadnae warned ye, either. That was wrong of me.”

Adeline touched the mark, knowing she should be angry at him for claiming her without even letting her know she had been claimed, but too happy to care. She was his. She, Lachann, and Osgar could be a family and live in this huge, safe castle together. It was far more than she had hoped for. Then she frowned. He had not said he loved her. Mate did not equal love.

“Does this mean ye care for me, Lachann?” she asked with a timidity that made her cross.

“Ah, lass, I more than care although I will admit that I didnae see it at the time.” He kissed her. “I saw it while I was trussed to that tree thinking I might ne’er see ye again. Aye, I love ye.” He laughed softly when she flung her arms around his neck and held him tightly. “It would be nice if ye loved me too but I am prepared to work to make ye give me your heart.”

“Oh, Lachann, ye have had it almost from the start,” she whispered against his neck as she began to unlace his shirt.

“Love, I would like nothing more than to make love to ye right now but there is more ye must ken, things about being one of us that ye need to learn.”

She leaned back to look at him. “We are married in the eyes of your clan?” He nodded. “Osgar is our son?” He smiled and nodded again. “We can have bairns of our own?”

“I pray so and it has certainly been shown that a MacNachton and an Outsider can breed weel,” he said as he pushed her down onto the bed and then began to throw off his clothes.

“Then I dinnae really need to ken any more.”

“Weel, ye do, but I think we will wait a wee bit before we finish this talk.”

Lachann made love to her so tenderly and thoroughly, Adeline thought she would happily drown in his love if that were possible. They exchanged caresses and kisses until they were both mad with need for each other. When he joined their bodies, the knowledge that he was hers only added to her pleasure. The release they shared was so strong and sweet that she was not surprised when it made her cry.

“Ah, love, dinnae cry,” Lachann said after he had cleaned them both off and rejoined her in their bed, holding her close.

“Just happy tears, Lachann. I am just verra, verra happy.” She sighed. “I now have a home and a mon I love who loves me, and Osgar has a family. It is just that my happiness is so great it overflows my heart.” She kissed his cheek and teased, “And I will love ye even when ye are old and gray.”

“Ah, that is something we need to talk about. It may weel be a verra long time before either of us is old and gray.” He proceeded to explain all about the longevity of the MacNachtons and how that longevity appeared to pass to their mates. The way her eyes rounded as he spoke began to make him nervous. “Does that frighten ye?”

“That I may have a lot more than fifty years with ye?” She laughed and hugged him. “Oh, Lachann, ’tis wondrous. I shall have years and years and years to love ye. Could anything be more wonderful!”

He smiled down at her. “Nay, love, nothing could be more wonderful than years of loving ye and being loved by ye. I look forward to every one of them.”

Taken by Darkness

ALEXANDRA IVY

Chapter One

Regency England
London

The townhouse situated in the heart of Mayfair was predictably beautiful.

Located close to Hyde Park, it boasted a columned portico, as well as a large terrace that overlooked a tidy garden with a gazebo. The windows were high and arched, spilling light onto the cobbled street that was clogged with expensive carriages. Along the roof a row of marble statues peered down at the arriving guests, impervious to the chill in the late April breeze.

The interior was equally elegant.

There were acres of marble with gilt molding and crimson wall panels. And the furnishings offered a hint of the Egyptian influence (an unfortunate fashion introduced by the Prince Regent). There was also a profusion of artwork chosen more to impress society than with any genuine appreciation.

Upstairs the ballroom was a blaze of color as the guests twirled beneath the glowing chandeliers, the room so crowded that it seemed as if all of England was in attendance.

In truth, Lord Treadwell’s spring ball was the unofficial beginning to the London Season, and one of the most sought-after invitations of the entire year. Mothers threatened to toss themselves into the Thames if their daughters were not among the fortunate debutantes on the guest list, and politically ambitious gentlemen had been known to offer discreet bribes just to step over the threshold.

It was a collection of the most stylish and powerful bluebloods in all England, but as one they came to a breathless halt as the latest guest swept through the double doors and regarded the crowd with a bored gaze.

Victor, Marquis DeRosa, was worthy of their attention.

Although not a large gentleman, he possessed the sort of sleek, chiseled muscles that were shown to perfection in his tailored black coat and white satin knee breeches.

His countenance was carved along noble lines with a wide brow, an aquiline nose, and a full mouth that could harden with cruelty or soften with a sensuous promise. His hair was as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing, and allowed to fall to his shoulders rather than being cut à la Titus as many of the young bucks, contrasting sharply with his pale skin.

But it was his eyes that caught and held the attention of most.

Pure silver in color, they were rimmed with a circle of black and so piercing that few would dare to meet his gaze. They were the eyes of a predator. A ruthless hunter that considered humans prey. And a mere glance was enough to make poor mortals tremble.

Some in fear.

Some in desire.

All in respect.

They might not have comprehended why they reacted so strongly to the sophisticated Marquis DeRosa, but they instinctively bowed to his will.

A small, mocking smile curved Victor’s lips as he prowled toward his host and hostess, who were fluttering with a panicked delight at his unexpected arrival.

After all, Victor had been in Venice for the past six months, returning to London only the evening before. No one was aware of his presence in the city. Besides, he rarely condescended to attend such tedious human parties even before leaving London.

Why would he?

As the clan chief of the London vampires, he was the most powerful demon in England. He had only to lift his finger to have an entire harem of beautiful females, human or demon, to sate his hungers. For blood or sex.

And as for entertainment . . .

After ten centuries of indulging in the most exotic and rare pleasure to be discovered throughout the world (from being the only male on an island filled with female wood sprites, to pitting his strength against the lethal Yegni demon), a mundane society ball was laughably dull.

Or at least it should be.

He disguised his rueful grimace as his gaze covertly skimmed the crowd until he discovered the one female in London, perhaps in all the world, who could have lured him to the stuffy, overcrowded townhouse.

She was here. He’d already caught the scent of ripe peaches. Yes. There she was. Miss Juliet Lawrence.

His unbeating heart jerked with an excitement that he didn’t entirely appreciate.

The female was beautiful enough. From her imp father she had inherited delicate features and a long mane of curls the vibrant color of autumn leaves. She had also been blessed with faintly slanted eyes that were the palest shade of green. But, unlike most imps, she was slender rather than lush, with an innate grace that had first captured his attention when she had arrived in London two years before.

Beauty, however, was not enough to explain his ruthless fascination for the woman. Especially considering her mother was a witch.

He hated witches.

Not only because his one weakness as a vampire was magic, but because his brother, Dante, had been abducted by a coven of witches and chained with their spells for all eternity.

Worthless whores.

And worse, Juliet was currently under the protection of a powerful mage, Justin, Lord Hawthorne.

He hated mages as thoroughly as he hated witches. Especially arrogant, pompous mages who didn’t possess the sense to defer to their betters.

So why was he growing consumed with the savage need to claim Miss Lawrence as his own?

Victor had tried to accept that it was nothing more than the fact that Juliet stubbornly refused to succumb to his seduction. It had been centuries since a woman had pretended indifference to his charms. What was more enticing than a prey that was clever enough to put up a struggle?

He had even traveled to Venice to prove that his enthrallment with the female was nothing more than a passing bit of insanity that was easily dismissed.

Unfortunately, all he had managed to prove was that Miss Juliet Lawrence was destined to plague him regardless of the distance between them.

He had filled his nights with the most alluring females and lavish amusements, but he could not rid himself of the aching need to return to London.

And Juliet.

His lips twisted as he watched her stiffen and slowly turn in his direction, belatedly sensing his presence. A predictable expression of dismay rippled over her beautiful features before she was covertly edging through the crowd, clearly preparing to bolt.

He moved forward, a flare of anticipation jolting through him. The chase was on and she was not going to escape.

Beginning tonight, Juliet was going to pay for reducing him to little more than a eunuch.

“My lord . . .” Unaware how close he came to a swift, bloody death, Lord Treadwell stepped directly in Victor’s path and grasped his arm. “We never expected . . . such a delight . . .”

Victor leashed his violent urge to rip out the throat of his host. Even if Juliet managed to slip away, there was nowhere she could hide.

Instead, he peered down at the pudgy fingers that were crushing the fall of Brussels lace that peeked from the hem of his jacket sleeve.

“So I perceive,” he drawled, his voice cold. “My dear Charles, have a care for my lace if not for my poor, abused arm.”

Treadwell jerked back his hand, reaching beneath his puce jacket for a handkerchief to mop the sweat from his flushed face.

“A thousand apologies.” The nobleman nervously cleared his throat, his customary air of smug superiority notably absent. “Please, allow me to introduce my wife.” He waved an absent hand toward the plump blonde less than half his age who stood behind him. “Letty, this is Marquis DeRosa. DeRosa, my wife, Lady Treadwell.”

Victor offered a graceful bow. “Enchanted.”

“Oh.” The woman rapidly waved her fan, her eyes wide and her lips parted in feminine awe. “Oh.”

Treadwell gave a bluff laugh, clapping Victor on the shoulder as if he had every right to touch the most powerful demon in England.

“I say, you quite overwhelmed the poor gal.” He winked at Victor, indifferent to his wife’s sudden embarrassment. “Let me escort you round the back way to the card room. That way, you won’t be bothered with the giggling petticoats. Give a man an ache in the head. Always best to avoid ’em when you can, eh?”

“Which only proves just how little you know me, Treadwell.” Victor’s tone was edged with a warning that made the fat idiot pale in fear. “Remain with your wife. I am capable of determining my own destination.”

“Oh . . . , I say. Of course. Certainly.”

Dismissing the idiot from his mind, Victor turned toward the dance floor, parting the thick crowd with a wave of his slender hand. Distantly, he was aware of the avid gazes following his slow, elegant stride and the whispers of excitement that rippled through the room, but his attention was focused on the scent of sweet peaches.

At last leaving behind the gawking crowd, Victor made his way along the dimly lit corridor, bypassing the various salons and antechambers until he reached the narrow door leading onto the back terrace.

Stepping into the chilled night air, Victor paused, his senses instinctively searching the garden and shadowed mews for any hint of danger. At the same moment his gaze was busily savoring the sight of Juliet leaning against the stone railing.

As a vampire, Victor had no need for the moonlight to reveal the pure, delicate lines of her profile or the fire in her curls that were currently pulled into a knot at the back of her head. He did, however, fully appreciate the wash of silver light that shimmered over alabaster skin and added a hint of mystery to the pale emerald eyes.

His gaze lowered to her gown, which was a delicate white lace over a gold sheath and cut in Grecian lines to emphasize the tempting mounds of her breasts. Then slowly his gaze lifted, lingering on the long, bare curve of her throat.

Victor’s fangs ached with a swift, brutal hunger.

Bloody hell. He had been too long without a woman.

With an effort, Victor resisted the urge to charge across the terrace and crush the female into his arms. Although she was not a practicing witch, and her imp blood was diluted, she did possess her own share of powers. Including the ability to resist his attempts to glamour her.

If he was going to lure her to his bed, it was going to take skill and patience.

For some ridiculous reason the knowledge sent a tingle of anticipation down his spine.

Madness.

Strolling forward, Victor allowed his gaze to boldly travel over her tense body, a faint smile curving his lips.

“Did you think you could hide from me, sweet Juliet?” he murmured.

The emerald eyes flashed with annoyance, but she couldn’t disguise the fluttering beat of her heart or the potent scent of her awareness.

Miss Juliet Lawrence might wish him in hell, but she desired him.

“Actually, I was attempting to avoid the sudden influx of vermin, my lord,” she drawled in overly sweet tones.

“Victor,” he corrected, not halting until he had her firmly trapped against the stone railing, his fierce gaze sweeping over her flushed face.

“I thought you were in Venice.” She tilted her chin, her expression defiant. “What are you doing here?”

“At the moment I am enjoying the very fine view,” he husked, his gaze never wavering from her wide eyes.

“I mean, what are you doing in London?”

“I should think it obvious. ’Tis hunting season.”

Her brows pulled together. “You are mistaken, my lord, hunting season ended weeks ago.”

His fingers lifted to trace the tender curve of her neck, his mouth watering.

“That all depends on the prey.”

She shivered, pressing against the railing in a futile attempt to escape his lingering touch.

“So you are here for the Marriage Mart?”

“I am.”

“You have developed a taste for tender young debutantes?” she mocked. “I thought you preferred a more well-seasoned meal.”

His lips twitched at the bite in her tone. “There is no need for you to be jealous of my . . .”

“Harem?”

“Companions.” His fingers lingered at the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, his senses drowning in the scent of peaches. “You need only say the word and there would be no others.”

“How many times must I tell you that I will never be a vampire’s blood-whore?” she rasped, her eyes flashing with fury.

Victor laughed. “Such crude language from such beautiful lips. Does it help you to deny your body’s hunger for my touch to pretend I am a monster?”

“There is no pretense. You are a monster.”

His lips twisted. He could hardly deny her claim.

He was a ruthless predator who killed without mercy and was willing to use whatever violence necessary to maintain control of his clan.

That did not mean, however, that he was incapable of appreciating a woman who stirred his most primitive needs. His gaze lowered to the soft thrust of her breasts, a shudder shaking through his body as the heat of her wrapped around him.

No. It was more than mere appreciation.

Having her in his bed, tasting the potent power of her blood . . . it was rapidly becoming a necessity.

He groaned, his fingers following the enticing line of her bodice, his body hard with need.

“And yet your heart thunders and your knees tremble when I am near,” he husked. “You cannot hide your reaction to me.”

She trembled. “Disgust.”

“Desire.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing over her bare shoulder. “It perfumes the very air.”

“My lord, stop this at once,” she demanded, even as her hands lifted to clutch at his shoulders.

It had been like this from the beginning.

Two years ago Juliet had walked into a London ballroom on the arm of Lord Hawthorne and every other woman had faded to meaningless shadows. Victor had known in that moment he had to have her. And it had not taken his heightened senses to know she was equally aroused.

Not that she was willing to admit as much.

No, for her own inexplicable reason, she was determined to keep him at a distance.

He growled as his arms wrapped around her tiny waist, hauling her hard against his body.

“Come into the gardens with me.”

“If it is time for your dinner then I suggest you find one of your concubines to slake your hunger.”

“I do not hunger for my dinner.” His lips traced a path down her collarbone before skimming up the curve of her throat. “Such exquisite skin.”

He felt her tremble in need, her hands pressed against his shoulders. “And I do not share my body any more readily than my blood.”

Pulling back, Victor regarded her with a brooding gaze. “I traveled to Venice to put you from my mind, but it was an impossible task. You haunt me, little one, and that is unacceptable.”

“What is unacceptable? The fact that I am the one woman capable of resisting your seduction, or the knowledge that you could make a fortune if only I would cooperate?”

It was a familiar accusation.

Juliet’s ability to sense the magical properties of objects, as well as people, was a rare talent that would be priceless to any vampire, and Victor had never hidden his desire for such a power. Why should he? Never again would he have to fear an enemy attempting to plot his early demise with a hidden spell. Or even accidentally stumbling into a trap. Juliet would always be able to warn him of the looming danger.

And, of course, there was the indisputable knowledge that her talent was worth a fortune.

The black-market trade for magical artifacts was a profitable, cutthroat business that kept any number of demons and humans living in luxury. Including the mage, Lord Hawthorne.

Bastard.

He caught and held her accusing gaze. “My wealth is more than sufficient, although I have never made it a secret that I covet your talent. A vampire’s one weakness has always been magic. With you at my side I would be all but invincible.”

Her chin tilted. “Which is only one of many reasons that I will never allow myself to be bound to you.”

He narrowed his gaze in sudden annoyance. “And yet you willingly offer yourself to Hawthorne. An arrogant ass—”

“You should recognize an arrogant ass easily enough. You need only look in a mirror,” she rudely interrupted, her chin stuck at a stubborn angle. “Ah, but wait. You have no reflection, do you, vampire?”

“And a mage,” Victor hissed, ignoring her insult.

“My mother was a witch.”

“An unfortunate circumstance I am willing to overlook.”

The emerald eyes flashed with fury as Juliet thrust her way past him, headed across the terrace.

“How vastly considerate of you, my lord.”

With blinding speed he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and jerking her back against his chest. Growling deep in his throat, Victor buried his face in the curve of her neck.

“I can be much more than merely considerate, sweet Juliet. I will give you whatever you desire . . .” His body stiffened in shock. “Bloody hell, why do you smell of gargoyle?”

Juliet resisted the urge to struggle against Victor’s restraining arms.

Despite the fact that she appeared to be a mere debutante among humans, she was in fact over a century old, and she had learned long ago that battling against a predator only inflamed his instincts.

And the Marquis DeRosa was very much a predator.

A beautiful, exotic, sensually lethal predator.

Holding herself rigid, she pretended indifference to the thrilling pleasure of his unyielding arms wrapped around her and the brush of his lips against her skin. Not that she was foolish enough to believe Victor was unaware of her thundering heart and the searing excitement that coiled through the pit of her stomach. The aggravating demon was always swift to pounce on her uncontrollable reaction to his potent masculinity.

“For God’s sake, stop sniffing me,” she gritted. “It is rude.”

He nipped at her neck, his fangs scraping her sensitive skin.

“Tell me where you came into contact with a gargoyle.”

She closed her eyes, fiercely attempting to ignore the jolt of need searing through her.

She had desired Victor from the moment she had caught sight of him across a crowded ballroom. Utterly and desperately. But she was not a fool.

Women who were stupid enough to fall victim to a vampire’s seduction were doomed to become mere ruins of their former selves.

“I am not your property, Marquis DeRosa, and I do not have to tell you anything,” she hissed.

“Property? No. But you are mine and if you refuse to tell me, then I will simply ask the Guild—”

With a sudden gasp, Juliet was turning in his arms, her expression one of horror.

“No.”

His brows lowered, the silver eyes studying her with an unnerving intensity.

“You have not allowed that foolishly soft heart of yours to put you in danger, have you?”

“Of course not.”

He cupped her chin in a slender hand, his handsome features tightening with a dangerous impatience.

“Juliet.”

She blew out a resigned sigh. The clan chief rarely exposed his formidable power in her presence, but when he did, she was wise enough to avoid trouble.

“A few months ago I discovered a gargoyle in Justin’s attics.”

“Did you?” The silver eyes narrowed. “Hawthorne must have an object of great worth to go to the expense and bother of negotiating with the Guild to provide protection for his mansion.”

“This particular gargoyle does not happen to belong to the Guild.”

“Impossible. He would not be allowed to hire out his services unless he was a member.”

Juliet grimaced. When she had first stumbled across the gargoyle, she hadn’t known what to think of the odd little creature.

Like most other gargoyles, Levet possessed grotesque features and a thick gray hide that turned to stone during the day. He also had a long tail he kept faithfully polished and a thick French accent.

Unlike most of his terrifying brethren, however, Levet was barely knee high, with delicate fairy wings that shimmered with brilliant blues and crimsons and were veined with gold. Even worse, his magic was unpredictable at best and inclined to cause more trouble than it was worth.

As a result the poor thing had been banished from his Guild and treated as little more than a leper among the demon world.

Juliet better than most understood the pain of never truly belonging.

Which no doubt explained why Levet had so swiftly earned a place in her wary heart. She would do whatever was necessary to protect him.

“Levet did not hire out his services. If you must know, he was refused entry into the Guild because he is . . .”

A raven brow arched as she hesitated. “Yes?”

“He is unusually tiny and considered deformed by his brethren,” she snapped. “Are you satisfied?”

“A deformed gargoyle?”

“Do not mock him.”

The silver eyes shimmered with a wicked amusement. “I am not so clumsy as to insult your friend. My enjoyment is at the thought of Hawthorne’s reaction to a miniature gargoyle cowering in his attics.”

“My household is none of your concern, DeRosa.” A deep male voice echoed through the darkness as Lord Hawthorne climbed the steps from the garden. “Neither is my apprentice.”

Juliet rolled her eyes as Victor’s arm tightened around her waist and an icy smile curved his lips.

The two men had been adversaries since Justin, Lord Hawthorne, and Juliet had arrived in London. Thus far the hostilities had not broken into open bloodshed, but Juliet sensed that it was only a matter of time.

Until then they took ridiculous delight in goading each other.

“Do you think to frighten me, mage?” Victor mocked.

Justin slowly crossed the terrace, his hand smoothing down the charcoal-gray jacket that he had matched with a black waistcoat and white knee breeches.

He was a large gentleman with a thick mane of hair that had turned silver centuries before. His face was square with strong features and black eyes that hinted at his ruthless will. Most women considered him handsome, although he would never claim the breathtaking splendor of Victor.

Halting near the stone railing, Justin folded his arms over his chest, his expression smug. Which could mean only one thing.

Gingerly Juliet opened her senses, not surprised by the unmistakable wall of magic that surrounded the mage. Justin might be an arrogant ass, as Victor claimed, but he was not stupid. He would never approach any vampire, let alone the powerful clan chief, without a spell of protection.

Not that it would keep a determined vampire from ripping out his throat.

“There will be no doubt if and when I desire to frighten you, devil spawn,” Justin taunted.

A wave of icy power raced through the air, prickling painfully over Juliet’s skin.

“Do not allow your ability to intimidate a few lesser demons to swell your head, Hawthorne,” Victor drawled. “It would be a lethal mistake.”

Taking advantage of Victor’s brief distraction, Juliet slipped from his grasp and moved to the center of the terrace.

“Since my presence is obviously superfluous, I will leave you two to entertain each other,” she muttered.

Justin stepped smoothly toward her, stretching out his hand. “Forgive me, Juliet—”

The words had barely left his mouth when he was abruptly slammed against the brick wall of the mansion, Victor’s hand wrapped around his throat and a pair of vicious fangs a mere breath away from his jugular.

Shocked by the swift violence, not to mention Victor’s ease in breaching Justin’s considerable defensive spell, Juliet hurried to the vampire’s side, laying a cautious hand on his shoulder.

“My lord, no,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. The air was thick with danger. It did not seem particularly wise to startle the lethal vampire. “I will not tolerate you creating a scene.”

There was a tense moment when Justin’s life hung in the balance; then, with a low snarl, Victor tossed the larger man aside and turned to grab Juliet, his silver eyes flashing with a stark hunger.

“Take heed, little one. I have attempted to cultivate patience—you are very young, after all—but my desire for you is swiftly consuming me,” he rasped. “I will not wait much longer.”

Her heart slammed against her chest, but not in fear, despite the slender fingers digging into her shoulders and the savage glitter in the silver eyes. No. It was pure exhilaration racing through her blood.

“Are you threatening me?” she breathed.

He framed her face in his hands, staring deep into her eyes before lowering his head to cover her mouth with a harsh, shockingly possessive kiss.

“A promise, nothing more,” he whispered against her lips; then, with a muttered curse, he abruptly released her and disappeared from the terrace with a terrifying speed.

Unconsciously Juliet pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling . . . shattered.

She had sensed the volatile emotions that lurked just below the surface when Victor was near. It was like standing in the middle of an alchemist’s lab, acutely aware that the brewing concoctions might suddenly explode.

But she had never realized that his kiss, any kiss, could snatch the earth from beneath her feet.

Hearing a faint noise, she smoothed the shock from her face. The last thing she desired was for anyone to guess her unwelcome vulnerability to Victor.

She was prepared as Justin moved to her side, a scowl marring his handsome features and his dark eyes smoldering with hatred.

The man was accustomed to being the master of any situation. He was not only a powerful mage, but with Juliet’s assistance, he had acquired a massive collection of magical weapons that would make anyone hesitate to challenge him.

Now Victor had effectively proven that he was capable of ripping out Justin’s throat and leaving him another corpse in London’s gutters. It was little wonder his hand was not quite steady as he patted the precise folds of his cravat.

“Damn the bastard,” he bit out. “How did he slip back to London without my knowledge?”

Her lips twisted, her gaze skimming over the dark, seemingly empty garden.

“A demon does not survive a thousand years without acquiring the skills necessary to travel unnoticed,” she pointed out dryly.

Justin was far from appeased. “Skills or not, I intend to have a word with my servants. They clearly have grown lax in their duties.”

“Lax? Highly doubtful,” she said. “They are terrified of you.”

With a shake of his head, Justin made an effort to pretend that he had not just been tossed across the terrace by an infuriated vampire.

“And you, Juliet?” he demanded, his fingers trailing a suggestive path over her flushed cheek. “Are you terrified of me?”

She took an abrupt step backward. Justin was handsome and, when he made the effort, a charming companion, but she had no interest in becoming his mistress. As far as she was concerned, their relationship was strictly business.

“Not particularly.”

“Hmm.” He studied her with a rueful smile. “I wish I believed you, my dear.”

With a restless shrug, Juliet turned to pace toward the edge of the terrace.

“Perhaps we should leave London.”

“You have a sudden desire to travel?” There was a hint of surprise in his voice.

Perfectly understandable.

Juliet had never made a secret of her aversion to their constant touring from place to place. It was not that she didn’t understand the need to avoid settling in one area for too long. Humans were not particularly perceptive, but eventually they did notice if their neighbors did not age. But it did not make the constant upheavals in her life any easier.

Now, however, she could not deny a cowardly urge to flee from Victor and the dangerous sensations he inspired.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, there is a pesky war being waged throughout Europe, if you will recall, my love,” he drawled, “and while the winter months always put a damper on the generals’ enthusiasm for battle, if my sources are not mistaken, the foolish Archduke Charles is planning a futile uprising in Austria, which of course will spark all sorts of nasty retaliations. We can only hope that Vienna is not damaged by his stupidity.”

She shrugged. “The Continent is not the only place beyond England. We could visit India or the Americas or—”

“Juliet, you are well aware that I dislike the colonies,” Justin interrupted, a hint of impatience entering his voice. “The society is tedious, the entertainments are rustic, and the natives little better than savages. Besides, my negotiations with the fey are not going as well as I would desire.”

Her heart sank.

For all of Justin’s magic, he was still human, and it was only with a potent mixture of rare herbs that he managed to hold back his mortality.

Herbs that could only be grown with fey magic.

Which meant that Justin would not dare to leave London until he was certain he had enough of the potion to last him for several weeks, if not months.

“What is wrong? You have never had trouble bartering for your potion before.”

Justin grimaced. “The fey are . . . unsettled.”

“That is hardly a shock. They are always flighty and unpredictable.”

“It is worse than usual. For the past three months I have sought to meet with Yiant, offering him a number of my finest possessions for the privilege, only to be told the Prince is not receiving.”

Juliet frowned in puzzlement. As she had said, the wood sprites were flighty creatures, but they were also cursed with an insatiable craving for magic. Nothing less than the threat of impending death would prevent a wood sprite from collecting a magical object.

“Did you offend him?”

“I would never be that foolish.” Justin’s jaw knotted with tension. “No. The Prince is either attempting to unnerve me in the hope of increasing the price of his goods, or he has gone into hiding.”

“Why would a fairy go into hiding?”

“A good question.”

A silence descended as they both considered the varied, and assuredly unpleasant, possibilities.

“So what do you intend to do?” she asked.

“Make him an offer so tempting that he cannot resist meeting with me.” Justin shot her a searching gaze. “Speaking of which, have you managed to have a peek at Lord Treadwell’s new collection, my dear?”

She waved a dismissive hand. It had taken less than a quarter hour to search through the Grecian collection that was currently being displayed in Lord Treadwell’s Picture Gallery.

Not only were the badly chipped statues and pieces of pottery lacking any hint of magic, but she suspected they were outright frauds, without the least amount of historical or artistic value.

“Rubbish.”

Justin cast a jaundiced glance toward the looming mansion. “Not entirely unexpected, but still a pity. Perhaps we shall have greater luck at the Stonevilles’ soiree.”

“Did Lord Stoneville purchase new artifacts?”

“No, but the rumor at the gentlemen’s club is that he’s recently taken on a young and very beautiful mistress.”

She frowned in confusion. “What interest could we possibly have in his mistress?”

A knowing smile curved Justin’s mouth. “The old goat must be eighty if he’s a day. If he is managing to keep up with a female a quarter of his age, then he must have some magical trinket to—”

“Yes, I comprehend your meaning,” Juliet interrupted, shuddering at the unfortunate image.

Far less squeamish, Justin held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Chapter Two

Two nights later, Juliet was seated on a Chippendale sofa with cabriole legs and threadbare brocade cushions that was tucked beneath the small window. God alone knew how long ago it had been relegated to the attics, but Levet had done his best to beat away the dust and cobwebs. He had also managed to clear enough space among the forgotten trunks and family portraits to place two wooden chairs around a small scrolled table in an appearance of a dining room.

The tiny gargoyle was astonishingly domesticated and complained bitterly (and far too often) at being forced to reside in the cramped, grimy attics.

As far as Levet was concerned, he should be inhabiting rooms at Versailles.

At the moment, however, amusement shimmered in the gray eyes and the delicate wings fluttered as he laughed at Juliet’s tale of her daring burglary of the valuable crystal that held the tears of a fertility god, while Justin had kept the ancient Lord Stoneville distracted.

“You are certain it was a Damanica?” the gargoyle demanded, his French accent pronounced.

“Without a doubt.” Juliet shrugged. “Justin is currently attempting to lure the wood sprites out of hiding with it.”

Levet laughed again. “Pathetic. Do English wood sprites have no stamina? No manly vigor? Sacre bleu. They must be like fish left out of the water.” He wiggled his hand. “Flop, flop, flop—”

“Levet,” Juliet hastily interrupted.

“Ah, pardon, ma belle.” The sensitive gargoyle was instantly contrite. “I forget what a delicate flower you are.”

“Delicate flower?” Juliet snorted. “Hardly that. I am a thief and a liar, and I sell my services to keep a roof over my head. Many would claim I am no better than a common whore.”

“Non, do not say such terrible things. We all do what we must to survive.”

Juliet heaved a sigh. She was painfully acquainted with the sacrifices that survival demanded.

“Yes, I suppose that is true enough.”

Levet tilted his head to the side, regarding her with a narrowed gaze.

“There is something troubling you, ma belle.”

Juliet turned her head to glance out the window, more to hide her revealing expression than to admire the view of Hyde Park slumbering beneath the silver moonlight.

“Nothing more than ennui.”

“Ennui? But only a few days ago you were telling me how delighted you were that the Season was at last under way.”

Of course, she had been delighted. She had told herself that the restless dissatisfaction that had plagued her throughout the long winter would be cured by the return of society to the city.

It was only when Victor had strolled into Lord Treadwell’s ballroom that she accepted her discontent had nothing to do with the lack of society and everything to do with the breathtakingly handsome demon.

The knowledge was galling.

And something she did not intend to share.

“I hoped that the return of society to London would provide a distraction,” she said, her voice determinedly light. “Foolish, of course. ’Tis the same tedious balls, with the same tedious guests, with the same tedious gossip.”

“But we adore gossip, do we not?”

“Only when it is interesting.” Juliet turned back to her companion, her fingers fidgeting with a satin ribbon threaded through the bodice of her peach muslin gown. “Thus far I have heard nothing more fascinating than that Lord Maywood’s youngest daughter was quietly removed from London after she attempted to elope with a blatant fortune hunter and that there has been an odd rash of lightning that people claim is coming from clear blue skies. One burned down a warehouse near the docks.”

Levet’s tail stiffened, as if startled by her inconsequential chatter.

“Lightning, you say? At the docks?”

“And why would you be interested in strange bolts of lightning?”

A smile touched the ugly gray face. “A nest of pixies will often attract lightning. Perhaps they have settled near the Thames.”

“You have a fondness for pixies?”

The gargoyle touched his fingers to his lips in a gesture of appreciation.

“But of course. The females are très désireuses and possess a remarkable ability to please a gargoyle.”

With a sharp movement Juliet was on her feet, an odd ache clenching her heart.

“For heaven’s sake, are all males so predictable?”

Levet gave a helpless lift of his hands. “Oui.”

“Pathetic.”

“Ma belle, please tell me what has upset you. I know it cannot be the lack of amusing scandal.” Levet waddled forward, his gray eyes troubled. “Juliet?”

She sucked in a deep breath, knowing the tiny creature would not leave her in peace until she had confessed the truth.

“The Marquis DeRosa has returned to London.”

“By my father’s stone balls.” Levet’s wings snapped in agitation, the sudden breeze sending dust flying through the air. “Well, there is no need to ask why he is here. The cold- hearted sod will not be satisfied until he has made you one of his sycophants.”

That was precisely what Juliet feared.

And why she fought so hard against her acute awareness of his sensuality.

“Hell will freeze over first,” she muttered.

Levet reached up to grasp her hand, the blatant concern in his expression sending a chill down her spine.

“Be careful, ma belle. He is more dangerous than you could ever imagine.”

“What would you have me do? I requested that Justin travel away from England, but he is too occupied with his negotiations with Yiant to leave London. I suppose I could go on my own, but . . .”

“Non, Juliet.” Levet’s tone was horrified. “For all of Hawthorne’s failings, and they are varied and numerous, he does provide some protection from those creatures who would do whatever was necessary to claim you and your powers.”

She paced the cramped space that had been cleared by the gargoyle, not for the first time resenting her dependency on the mage.

If only—

Juliet abruptly crushed the worthless yearning.

Her parents were dead. Nothing could alter that grim fact.

“I am not entirely helpless,” she gritted.

“Not helpless, but you will never be ruthless enough to survive alone in the demon world, remerciez un dieu.”

She ignored the painful truth of his words. “Perhaps Yiant will accept the Damanica as a proper token and offer Justin the herbs he needs. He will have no reason to linger in London once he has his potion.”

“I would not be so certain.”

Juliet halted her pacing to regard the gargoyle with a puzzled frown.

“What do you mean?”

“It is rumored that Hawthorne has at last convinced Madame Andreas to become his mistress.”

Juliet snorted. “If you mean to shock me, Levet, you are wide of the mark. Justin always has one mistress or another. He will easily find another in the East Indies or Egypt or the Americas.”

“Madame Andreas is not just another mistress, Juliet, she is considered the most beautiful woman in London,” Levet corrected her. “Even DeRosa has been seen attempting to court her favors.”

A sharp, savage pain jabbed through her heart at the mere thought of Victor being beguiled by the golden-haired, blue-eyed, voluptuous beauty. Which was utterly absurd. From the moment she had arrived in London she had heard whispers of the Marquis DeRosa’s numerous mistresses, and had seen with her own eyes how the women flocked to be at his side.

Besides, it was common knowledge among the demon world that vampires were sexually insatiable. Until they mated it was not at all unusual for them to insist on a dozen or more lovers.

Damn Victor to the fiery pits of hell.

“Has he? Well, I hope . . .”

“Oui?”

“I hope he chokes on her,” Juliet snapped.

Levet’s lumpy brow furrowed as he regarded her in sudden dismay. “Did I make a middle of it?”

“Middle?” It took her a moment to realize what the gargoyle was saying. “Muddle. A muddle of it.”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “Middle, muddle. Did I say something wrong?”

“Not at all.” Juliet felt her brittle composure begin to falter. “If you will excuse me, I believe I will retire for the night.”

“Are you not feeling well?”

“I seem to have developed a pain in my neck.”

Without giving Levet time to halt her retreat, Juliet left the attics, taking a direct route through the candlelit corridors to her private chambers.

Normally she found a sense of pleasure when she entered the sitting room decorated in shades of blue and ivory, with solid English furniture that had been designed for comfort rather than fashion. And most charming of all, the tall, arched windows that overlooked the cobblestone road. She adored spending her mornings sipping chocolate while seated on the cushioned window seat and watching the neighbors go about their business.

Tonight, however, she headed straight for the connected room, preparing for bed with stiff, angry movements.

She could call for a maid, of course. Justin had a full staff of servants, all of them of mixed demon blood so that Juliet had no need to pretend to be human. But she was in no mood to endure the curious gaze and inane chatter of her maid.

She only wished to crawl beneath her covers and pretend she was far away from London and the Marquis DeRosa.

Much to her surprise, Juliet managed to slip into a deep sleep, although it was marred with nightmares of being trapped in a small cellar while something—or someone—crept toward the door.

If she were a practicing witch, she might have attempted to discover the deeper meaning of her vivid dream and the choking fear that had seemed far too real. But with no genuine power beyond her ability to sense magic, she was willing to dismiss the vague premonition when Levet’s voice echoed through her head.

“Juliet,” the gargoyle called. “Sacre bleu, wake up.”

“Levet?” Sitting up, Juliet glanced around the empty room, her father’s demon blood giving her the ability to see no matter how dark it might be. “Levet, where are you?”

“I am speaking to you through your mind.”

She frowned, lifting a hand to her temple. “I wish you would not. It is making me dizzy.”

“Non, do not sever our bond. I need you, ma belle.”

“Now?”

“Oui. I am in trouble.”

Juliet’s heart missed a beat at the unmistakable edge of panic in the gargoyle’s voice.

“Dear God, are you hurt?”

“For now only my pride is injured, but I sense the future of my health is not at all certain. In truth, ma belle, it appears to be particularly dire.”

Barely realizing she was moving, Juliet crawled from the bed and headed for the smaller of the two armoires. Her fey blood demanded that she occasionally escape the confines of the city and surround herself with nature. She always kept several sets of loose smocks and pants that were more fitting for a stable boy than a young lady of society. Perfect for her long afternoons in the woods.

“Where are you?”

“I am not entirely certain.”

“Levet, you are not being excessively helpful,” she said, swiftly exchanging her night shift for the pants and smock, as well as a pair of boys’ boots. “I need to know where to begin my search if you desire to be rescued.”

“And you think that has not occurred to me?” Levet barked. “Had I known I was to be attacked and held hostage I would have been clever enough to leave a trail of bread crumbs for you to follow.”

Juliet moved to the dresser and began pinning her thick curls on top of her head.

“Do you wish my assistance or not?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

“After you left me alone to entertain myself I decided to visit the docks.”

“Why in heaven’s name would you . . . ?” Juliet bit off her words as realization struck her. “The pixies. Really, Levet.”

“I am a gargoyle, not a saint. And you were the one to tempt me with the promise of pixies.”

Juliet stiffened at the ludicrous accusation. “I did no such thing.”

“Juliet, something is coming,” Levet hissed, his fear potent enough to spill through her. “Please, ma petite, I need you.”

There was a painful wrench, and abruptly her connection to the gargoyle was severed.

“Damn.”

Pausing only long enough to shove a knit hat over her curls, she clambered out her window and jumped the short distance to the nearby tree.

She might not possess Justin’s terrifying magic or Victor’s icy power, but she was willing to do whatever was necessary to rescue her one true friend.

No matter what the danger.

The estate of the Marquis DeRosa was less than a half-hour ride from London, but it provided all the space and privacy a vampire craved.

Built of white stone, it was designed along pure, classical lines with massive marble columns and tall windows that overlooked the manicured lawn and distant lake.

It was not the first manor house built on that precise spot. Victor had, after all, owned the property for several hundred years. But like all the others before, it was constructed as much for security as for luxury.

The vast grounds were guarded during the evening by his clan brothers, while the daylight hours were protected by poisonous Bguli demons who could defeat all but the most powerful enemies. The house itself was wrapped in hexes to keep out unwelcome intruders, including any overly forward humans.

Not that the elaborate defenses were actually necessary.

Only a demon or mortal anxious to seek his grave would be stupid enough to invade Victor’s lair.

Not without invitation.

Sprawled in a massive wooden chair that had once belonged to a Roman general who had the misfortune to kill a human under clan protection, Victor surveyed the various guests who filled his elegant salon.

There was a combination of demons. Vampires, imps, several lovely nymphs, and a handful of human chattel, all of whom were extraordinarily beautiful, and all eager to capture Victor’s brooding attention.

A pity he had no interest in the half-naked bodies that were deliberately poised on the chaise longues and large pillows tossed across the carpet. The tasty feast might be perfectly calculated to sate a hungry vampire, but Victor felt nothing more than cold apathy.

Waving away the silver-haired nymph attired in a thin gauze gown who knelt at his feet with her head tilted in silent invitation, he ruefully accepted that his once varied and exotic taste had now been reduced to one particular female.

A female whom he was still no closer to having in his bed.

His slender fingers were tapping a restless tattoo on the scrolled arm of the chair, his body aching for Miss Juliet Lawrence, when the far doors were thrust open to reveal a tall vampire with a halo of brown curls and large brown eyes.

Most people were deceived by the air of youth and innocence that clung to Uriel even after two centuries, but not Victor. Although the vampire would never possess Victor’s own power, Uriel was a brutal killer when necessary and loyal beyond reason.

Which was precisely why Victor had demanded the demon maintain a constant guard on Juliet since she’d first captured his fancy.

With a lift of his brow, he gestured for the vampire to join him, knowing that Uriel would never have abandoned his post without a compelling reason.

Moving through the guests with fluid speed, Uriel fell to his knees before Victor and bent his head.

“Master.”

“Tell me.”

“The female left her home.”

“An odd hour.” He frowned. It was because Juliet’s maid had sent a note to say her mistress would be staying in for the evening that he had reluctantly agreed to this small gathering. His clan deserved a few entertainments even if their chief was preoccupied with a stubborn, unmanageable female. “She was with Hawthorne?”

“No, master, she was alone.”

“Alone?”

“Alone and on foot.”

“Damn.” Victor’s hands clenched the arms of his chair, the wood creaking as it threatened to shatter beneath the pressure. “I trust Johan is following her?”

“Of course.”

He glanced toward the dark windows, judging the hours before sunrise.

“Juliet is impulsive, but she is not a fool. Why would she be traveling the London streets alone?” He returned his attention to his servant. “Did a messenger arrive?”

“No, master. No one approached the house.”

Something perilously close to fury flared through Victor’s cold heart as he flowed to his feet.

Where the devil would Juliet be headed to at such an hour? Although London was no doubt ablaze with parties, she would never attend one without a proper chaperon and certainly not on foot.

So that meant she was either conducting nefarious business or she was meeting a secret lover.

It was the latter thought that triggered his blast of icy power, sending the humans and lesser demons fleeing the room in fear and his brothers falling onto their knees.

“Where is Hawthorne?”

“He is in the Hampton Court gardens, still attempting to lure Yiant out of hiding.”

Uriel’s explanation reminded Victor of yet another mystery nagging at him.

“Have you discovered what has disturbed the sprites?”

“I fear not, master.”

Victor flicked his finger, commanding Uriel to his feet.

“Perhaps my absence from London has allowed my clan to forget that my commands are not mere suggestions,” he said, the frigid force of his voice wrapping around his servant and causing him to flinch in pain. “I do expect to be obeyed.”

“Forgive us, master,” the vampire pleaded, his voice tight with the knowledge that Victor could kill him with one blow. “We have sought to discover the truth, but the sprites refuse to speak.”

“Refuse? How very bold of them,” Victor drawled, his gaze skimming over his cringing clansmen. “And how very disappointing that my fine warriors have been bested by a handful of fey.”

“We will discover the truth,” Uriel pledged.

“Yes, you will.” Victor narrowed his gaze, dismissing the trifling annoyance from his mind. He had far more important matters to command his attention. Not the least of which was putting an end to his delicate dance with Miss Juliet Lawrence. He had struggled to be patient, but he would not tolerate having her in danger. And he most certainly would not tolerate her taking a lover. He would kill any man who dared to touch her. “Tonight, however, you will prepare chambers for Miss Lawrence and rid the lair of any undesirable guests before I return.”

There was a brief flicker of surprise before Uriel managed to smooth his expression.

“Yes, master.”

Victor headed across the room, pausing at the doorway. “Ah, and I will need the services of a chef.”

“I . . .” Uriel blinked, then gave a hasty nod of his head. “Certainly.”

Stepping into the antechamber, Victor pulled a satin cloak over his formal evening attire and glanced toward Madame Andreas, a lushly curved female who hovered with the rest of the humans.

With a tiny cry of pleasure, the blonde rushed forward, sinking into a deep curtsy that called attention to pearly mounds of breasts that overflowed the velvet gown.

“Francine.”

“My lord?” she breathed.

“Hawthorne will be returning to his home within the next few hours. I want you to be waiting for him.”

“Do you have any specific instructions?”

“Ensure that he remains unaware that Miss Lawrence is not in her bed. The more hours you can keep him distracted, the better.”

She daringly lifted her gaze, regarding him with a stark sexual hunger.

“A foolish waste of my talents. Send one of your other females to Hawthorne and I will make you forget the dowdy Miss Lawrence.”

Victor’s expression hardened with unmistakable warning. “Do not speak her name.”

“What is so bloody special about her?” the woman demanded with a petulant jealousy.

“She is mine.”

Chapter Three

Juliet was well aware of the dangers of traveling through London in the middle of the night.

Oh, not the usual dangers.

Any criminal or drunken lout who thought she was easy prey would soon discover the error of their ways, but there were predators that hunted the streets far more lethal than the human variety.

Mages, fey, demons . . .

All of whom could destroy her with embarrassing ease.

Which was why she had brought along her mother’s amulet, which allowed her to focus the small amount of magic she possessed. In addition, she had grabbed a well-worn crystal that glowed with a soft power. It was the only possession she had from her father and it stirred her imp blood.

The objects would not save her from a full-blooded demon who wanted her dead, but they offered some protection.

Leaving behind the elegant neighborhoods, Juliet silently moved through the shadows, headed toward the cramped, narrow Rosemary Lane and onto Pennington Street, which eventually spilled onto the docks.

Once among the warren of warehouses and quays, Juliet halted, not at all certain where to begin her search.

Levet had said the docks, but they sprawled along the Thames from the medieval London docks to the East and West Indies docks that were still under construction. They were also crowded with sailors and dockhands even at this hour.

How the devil was she supposed to find a tiny gargoyle among the confusion?

Rubbing her nose at the potent stench that clogged the air, Juliet was considering the nearest warehouse when her skin abruptly prickled with warning, a chill wrapping around her.

A dark premonition crawled up her spine and with a gasp she whirled. Her heart lodged in her throat at the sight of the Marquis DeRosa, his raven hair pulled back to reveal the stark beauty of his face and his eyes shimmering pure silver in the moonlight.

“Now what, I wonder, would entice a young and innocent maiden to the docks at this hour?” he mocked softly.

She pressed a hand to her churning stomach, her brows drawing together in annoyance.

“My lord.”

“Victor.”

“I wish you would not sneak up on me.”

The cape swirled around his powerful body as he stepped toward her, reaching out to cup her chin in his slender hand.

“You should be thanking whatever god you pray to that I am the one sneaking up on you. It is beyond foolish to be wandering the streets alone.”

With a shiver, she jerked from his touch.

How could a touch so cold send streaks of fire through her body?

“I am more likely to curse the evil spirit that crossed our paths. What are you doing here?”

“Attempting to keep you from an early grave.”

Her eyes widened. “Did you follow me?”

His aquiline nose wrinkled in delicate distaste. “I can imagine no other reason to bring me to such a repugnant neighborhood.”

Her hands clenched at her sides at his blatant confession. “Why, you . . .”

A raven brow flicked upward. “Yes?”

“You have no right to spy on me. I am not one of your concubines.”

The silver eyes flashed with a ruthless intent as he framed her face in his hands, his intoxicating scent filling her senses.

“No, never my concubine,” he agreed, lowering his head to stroke his lips down the curve of her cheek, halting to nuzzle the corner of her mouth.

“Halt that,” she breathed, desperately attempting to fight the acute pleasure of his touch.

God Almighty, she craved this vampire. She logically comprehended that the beautiful demon would be a lethal addiction for any female stupid enough to fall victim to his seduction. Still, her body ached to be in his arms, the feel of his fangs feeding greedily at her neck as he plunged deep inside her.

Which was far more terrifying than any hidden dangers that lurked among the docks.

Closing her eyes, she poured her thoughts into the amulet hung about her neck, feeling its heat prickle over her skin until Victor abruptly jerked his hands away.

He narrowed his eyes, astonishingly appearing more aroused than offended by her little parlor trick.

“Ah, you enjoy playing rough, little one?”

“I simply want you to go away.”

“Juliet, be assured that hell will freeze over before I allow you to remain here alone,” he said, the cold power of his voice sending the rats scurrying in fear and making the humans glance over their shoulders in unease. They would have no notion of why they were suddenly fidgety, only that they wished they were at a nearby pub. “Tell me why you are roaming these docks.”

Her jaw tightened, but she was not entirely stupid. Beneath Victor’s polished charm was a dangerous edge that warned he would not leave until he was satisfied.

“I am searching for a friend.”

“Friend? Or lover?” he silkily demanded.

She blinked in shock at the abrupt question. “That is none of your concern.”

“Do not pretend ignorance. You have known from our first encounter that I would not tolerate another man in your bed.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her mouth dry. “You truly are an arrogant ass.”

“Tell me.” He grasped her shoulders, his eyes glittering with a fierce emotion. “Are you here to meet a lover?”

“No.” Grimly she forced herself to meet his stark, possessive gaze, her chin tilting. “If you must know, I am searching for Levet.”

“Levet?”

“The gargoyle. He is in trouble.”

His fingers eased their grip on her shoulders, but his expression remained hard with warning in the wash of moonlight.

“Bloody hell. You risked your life for a deformed gargoyle who is not even worthy of being a part of his Guild?”

She stiffened. “There happen to be many of us who are unworthy to belong to a Guild or a clan or a coven, my lord. That does not mean we cannot possess friends who care for us.”

“Juliet—”

Victor’s words were brought to a sharp halt as a distinct sizzle flared through the air and then, without warning, Juliet felt herself being hauled to the ground. Victor covered her with his body just as a strike of lightning hit a building on the other side of the quay.

She heard the sound of distant shouts of alarm as humans rushed away from the unexpected shower of brick and glass, but with fluid speed, Victor was on his feet and scooping Juliet in his arms as he headed into the nearest warehouse.

There was the overwhelming stench of damp wool and smoke from the oil lanterns as Victor flowed past the stacked crates to the back of the long room, his movements silent and swift. Halting next to the heavy wooden doors, Victor set her gently on her feet and scanned their surroundings for potential threats.

“Is it pixies?” Juliet demanded, tugging down her loose shirt. Thank God she had possessed the sense to trade her corset and skirts for more suitable garments.

Victor tossed aside his cloak and removed his elegant jacket and waistcoat, carelessly dropping the expensive, but restrictive, clothing on the filthy floor.

“Why would you suspect pixies?” he demanded.

“Levet claimed that they attract lightning.”

“It is true a nest might occasionally draw upon the energy of a storm to enhance their magic, but they are not capable of creating lightning from a clear sky.”

Juliet grimaced. Of course, it could not be a nest of harmless pixies.

“Then what creature is capable?”

“A mage.” He sent a questioning glance in her direction. “Or witch.”

She paused, then gave a decisive shake of her head. “No. There have been no spells cast. At least none in this neighborhood.”

“No magical objects?”

“Nothing with the power to—”

Again they were interrupted by that peculiar prickling in the air followed by a violent shake of the warehouse, as if the lightning had struck the slate roof.

Yanking her against his hard body, Victor wrapped his arms around her, his frigid energy pulsing through the warehouse.

“Damn. We must get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving until I have found Levet.”

He pulled back to glare at her in disbelief. “Do not be a fool. Whatever is creating such a violent disturbance in nature is beyond our ability to defeat.”

“I am not asking for your assistance.” She ignored the daunting implication that whatever was creating the lightning was more powerful than a vampire clan chief. “Indeed, I prefer to continue my search without your interference.”

“Juliet, you can come with me willingly or I will take you by force. In either case, you will not be allowed to endanger yourself.”

Jerking out of his arms, she glared at him with an unmistakable threat.

“Marquis DeRosa, if you attempt to force me to leave, I will never forgive you.”

His brows snapped together at her mulish determination, and for a moment Juliet sensed he was poised to ignore her warning. Victor was a vampire accustomed to being in command. He gave an order and it was obeyed, without question and with a nauseating amount of groveling. His instinct would be to toss her over his shoulder and to hell with her own wishes.

But, even as Juliet was preparing for a futile battle to keep from being hauled away from the docks, Victor muttered a curse in a language that was long dead and, closing his eyes, tilted back his head.

“What are you doing?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Attempting to sense the gargoyle.”

“Is he near?”

“Impossible to say.”

“Impossible or inconvenient?”

“Both.” Lifting his ridiculously lush fringe of lashes, the vampire stabbed her with an admonishing glare. “And before you condemn me to the netherworld, you are sensible enough to realize that there are hundreds of scents, most of them excessively unpleasant, that mask any particular trail.” He paused, an unmistakable tension etched on his beautiful face. “Besides, there is a strange energy that is interfering with my senses.”

Juliet studied the empty warehouse. “It cannot be a spell.”

“No, it is the natural magic of a demon, but I cannot tell you the species. I only know that it is strong and very aggressive.”

Perfect. Juliet unconsciously wrapped her arms around her waist.

“How can you know it is aggressive?”

“The hostility fills the air.” The cold fingers lightly touched her cheek as Victor regarded her with a brooding frustration. “Juliet, this is no game. We have to leave.”

With exquisite timing, another explosion rocked the warehouse, unexpectedly buckling the stone floor to reveal a gaping chasm.

A scream was wrenched from Juliet’s throat as the earth crumbled beneath her feet, and with a sickening sense of helplessness she plunged into the darkness below.

Victor cursed as he grabbed for Juliet, only to have her snatched from his grasp as the floor collapsed.

He didn’t hesitate.

For perhaps the first time in his very long existence, Victor leapt without considering the consequences, without seeking the potential dangers, his savage need to protect the vulnerable female simply overcoming his instinctive sense of selfpreservation.

Astonishing.

Landing lightly on the balls of his feet, Victor moved silently to where Juliet sprawled on the packed-earth floor, her hand lifting to rub the back of her head.

“Ow.” She struggled to sit upright. “Where are we?”

He crouched next to her, his hunter senses capable of determining that she had a small cut on the back of her head and a few bruises, but that she was essentially unharmed.

His fangs lengthened, aching with hunger at the intoxicating scent of warm peaches and blood that abruptly swirled around him. Damn. With an effort, he thrust aside his potent reaction, instead concentrating on their surroundings.

The small cavern appeared to be connected to a series of tunnels that ran beneath the docks, the smooth walls and carved ceiling proving they were not natural, nor the work of mere humans.

“I assume we have intruded into the lair of some demon.”

“Lovely.” With an effort, Juliet rose to her feet, glancing up at the opening far above them. “How are we—”

Her words ended in a small squeak as he shifted with blinding speed to stand directly behind her, one hand clamped across her mouth and his arm wrapping around her waist to tug her against his chest. Bending his head, he placed his mouth next to her ear.

“Ssh.”

He felt her stiffen as she became aware of the ominous foreboding that drenched the air above them.

“What is it?”

Her words were muffled and so low that only a vampire’s heightened hearing could have heard them.

“Death,” he whispered.

“I am desperately hoping that is a metaphor.”

“Only if we are fortunate enough to avoid being caught.”

Keeping his arm wrapped around her tiny waist, he lifted her off the ground and began backing toward the nearby tunnel, calling upon his powers to cloak them in shadows. It would not entirely disguise their scents, but it would hopefully mute them enough to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

Silently he moved away from the cavern, edging deeper into darkness until he at last halted where the tunnel split in two directions. He gently set Juliet back on her feet, but he kept his arm firmly around her, absurdly needing the tangible comfort of knowing she was unharmed.

Glancing over her shoulder, Juliet tilted her chin, refusing to reveal the fear he could feel trembling through her body. His lips twisted as he ruefully admitted that he admired her courage, even as it threatened to drive him insane. After all, if she were a bit more timid they might even now be at his lair, spending the evening in a far more satisfying manner.

Wickedly, intimately satisfying.

“What are we doing?” she demanded.

“Waiting and hoping the creature passes on without noticing our trail.”

She nodded her head, then her brows tugged together as she noticed the thick scents that wafted from the far tunnel.

“Good lord, it smells of . . .”

“Humans.”

“Terror,” she softly corrected him.

His hand cupped her chin as he studied her delicate face. “And what would you know of such a thing, little one?”

“When I was young my parents and I were traveling through Africa. One night we entered a town where a slaver’s ship was berthed.” She shivered. “I will never forget the stench of desperation. It spread through the streets and tainted everything in its path.”

“Your parents permitted you to be near such evil?”

“Actually, my mother used me to sneak aboard the ship and release the shackles that held the humans captive while she cast a spell that made the slavers believe they were being chased by hungry lions.” A small smile of remembered satisfaction curved her lips. “The last we heard, they ran straight into a tribal village that happened to take a very dim view of their townsfolk being sold like cattle.”

A cold fury clenched his stomach at the mere thought of what might have happened to her.

“Your mother sent you alone to release brutalized slaves?”

“She trusted that I was capable of performing an important task as well as teaching me to care for others,” she snapped, the raw wound of her parents’ death suddenly visible in her eyes. “Something I have forgotten far too often since . . .”

His fingers softened their grip to trail over her cheek, oddly feeling her pain as if it were his own.

“How did you become Hawthorne’s apprentice?”

“After my parents were murdered, I was determined to remain on my own.” A tremor shook her body. “It did not take long before I learned that humans are not the only creatures capable of great evil.”

“You were hurt?”

Her eyes clouded before she hastily lowered her lashes, as if she could hide her emotions from him.

“I was captured by trolls and sold to the highest bidder.”

Victor made no effort to contain the eruption of frigid power that filled the tunnels.

“Their names.”

She regarded him warily. “I beg your pardon?”

“Give me the names of the trolls.”

“They did not bother to share their private information and it no longer matters.” She gave a restless shrug. “I was fortunate that Lord Hawthorne was at the auction and purchased me.”

“Hardly fortunate,” he bit out. “The bastard has taken advantage of you and your talents for decades.”

“We both know how much worse it could have been.”

His jaw clenched. He wanted to deny the truth of her words. He detested the overly conceited bastard, and not just because he was a mage.

The man stood as a protector to this woman.

A position that belonged solely to Victor.

“Very well. I will concede there are worse fates than to be apprenticed to Hawthorne, but why do you continue to remain with him?” he growled. “The debt must be paid by now.”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

A dangerous emotion jolted through his heart at her soft words, his arm tightening in an unconsciously possessive motion.

“You are mistaken, little one. Your place is with me.”

A bleak smile curved her lips. “And once you weary of me in your bed, my lord? Would I become a tasty meal for your clan?”

Unthinkable.

He growled low in his throat, knowing he would readily kill any of his brothers who tried to touch her.

“Perhaps I will never weary of you.”

“I am no gullible mortal. A vampire’s hunger is as varied as it is insatiable until he has mated.”

His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “That is the common assumption.”

“Ah, no doubt you are about to convince me that you are different from every other vampire?”

“But of course I am. I expected that went without mentioning.”

“Arrogant—”

Victor swooped down to claim her lips in a kiss of naked, unrelenting need.

“My hunger remains insatiable, but it is no longer varied,” he confessed. “I desire no woman but you.”

“For the moment.”

He pulled back to capture her wary gaze. “Since I first caught sight of you.”

“Are you implying . . . ?” She sharply shook her head. “No, it is impossible.”

“I can be deceitful when the occasion demands, but I will never lie to you, little one,” he swore. “That you can depend on.”

Chapter Four

Juliet’s heart forgot to beat as she gazed into the silver eyes, mesmerized by the promise that shimmered in the beautiful depths.

Was it possible?

Could he truly have forsaken women since meeting her?

And if he had, why would he?

He had to have a potent reason to deny himself. It was, after all, unheard of for a vampire to go even a few nights without sating his sexual appetite.

So why . . .

It was the yearning ache deep inside her that abruptly shocked her out of her inane thoughts.

Good Lord, she had known for two years that she lusted after Victor. Hardly a shocking realization. What female in London did not desire the handsome beast?

But to long for something he could never, ever offer her was utter madness.

“This is hardly the time or place for such a discussion,” she forced herself to say, spinning out of his hold and heading toward the far tunnel before he could guess her intent.

“Juliet. Damn.” There was a stir of cold air before Victor was grasping her arm to bring her to an abrupt halt. “Where do you think you are going?”

“To see if we can help the humans.” She squared her shoulders. “And then to find Levet.”

“Do not be a fool.”

“Fine. You remain here. I will go.”

“Absolutely not.”

She steadily met his smoldering silver gaze. “We have already been through this, my lord. You are not my keeper. In truth, you have no right to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

His jaw tightened with frustration. “You have always possessed an independent spirit, but you have never willfully courted danger. Why are you being so stubborn?”

Her gaze dropped to where his slender fingers wrapped around her wrist, genuinely considering his question.

“Because I am weary of allowing my fears to isolate me from the world,” she at last confessed.

“You are hardly isolated.”

“Perhaps not physically, but I have avoided becoming emotionally involved.” Her voice was soft, edged with regret. “I told myself that it would be illogical to become attached to others when I would eventually be forced to leave them behind. Spending time with Levet has made me realize I was simply being a coward.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You have readily defied the most dangerous demon in the entire British Empire. You consider that the behavior of a coward?”

“More like the behavior of a lunatic,” she muttered, lifting her head to meet his glare. “But I was referring to my habit of avoiding relationships out of a fainthearted fear of experiencing the same pain I endured when I lost my parents. It has kept me in a prison of my own making.”

“I would be the first to applaud your desire to share your life, so long as it is with me, but what does this newfound need have to do with recklessly endangering yourself?”

She shrugged, ignoring his frigid displeasure. Stupid, of course. Only a fool would willingly cross swords with a vampire.

But over the past months she had been plagued with a growing restless need to break free of the fear that had held her captive for far too long.

“Truly being a part of the world means taking risks, as my mother taught me. Whether it is with your heart or with your life.” She sent him a challenging frown. “Do not try to convince me that you would not do whatever was necessary to rescue a vampire who had been kidnapped.”

“It is my duty as clan chief.”

“Well, this is my duty as a . . .”

“Yes?”

She yanked her arm from his grasp. “As a mongrel, I suppose.”

His brows snapped together at her brittle tone, but before he could continue his lecture, she was moving down the tunnel, refusing to halt until she reached the heavy metal door that blocked the passage.

She pressed a hand to the wall of the tunnel, knowing better than to actually touch the door until she was certain there were no nasty surprises. Her brow pleated with concentration. Unlike full-blooded demons, she did not possess finely tuned senses that allowed her to easily determine every nuance of her surroundings.

Which only meant she had to work harder, she grimly told herself.

Ignoring the annoyed vampire hovering protectively at her shoulder, Juliet pushed out with her senses, nearly going to her knees at the staggering odor of unwashed bodies and barely leashed panic.

Her every instinct urged her to turn around and flee, just as it had all those years ago when she had been in the bowels of the slave ship. Hardly unexpected. No creature with the least amount of sense would be eager to confront whatever was behind the door.

But now, as then, she called on the thought of her parents. Her fierce, fearless mother who defied her own coven to be with the imp she loved. Her impulsive, charming father with his ready laugh and open delight in his only child.

They believed in her, never allowing her to accept she was less because she was a mere mongrel.

Tonight she would make them proud.

“There are more than just humans,” she muttered.

“Sprites,” Victor determined with annoying ease. “A few nymphs.”

“Gargoyle?”

“Not mixed among the others.”

She snapped her gaze to his wary face. “But Levet is here?”

His lips thinned; he was no doubt regretting his promise he would never lie to her.

“Yes.”

Relief surged through her. “Thank God.”

“No god would be so cruel,” he drawled.

She ignored Victor’s callous indifference toward her friend. Vampires considered any demon not a vampire as a lesser demon. Even werewolves.

“First we must release the captives,” she decided.

Victor scowled. “Juliet, you do realize this might very well be a trap?”

“Do you sense—”

“I do not need to sense danger to know it is there.”

“I am doing this with or without you, Victor.”

The silver eyes flashed with mocking amusement. “Ah, when you have need of me I am Victor, eh, little one?”

She clenched her teeth, belatedly realizing she had indeed allowed his name to slip out. It was a luxury she never indulged in. Not when she needed the formality to remind herself that Victor was a forbidden temptation. Just as she pretended she did not notice the manner in which his silk shirt clung to the chiseled muscles of his chest, or how precisely his pantaloons outlined the hard lines of his legs . . .

“I have several other names if you prefer,” she muttered.

With an impatient sound, Victor captured her face in his hands and leaned down to steal a kiss that jolted through her with stunning force.

“Let us be done with this,” he rasped against her mouth. “I have a far better means to spend the evening.”

She shivered, the image of the delicious vampire sprawled on satin sheets, his fangs latched onto the vulnerable throat of a woman, searing through her mind.

“I can imagine.”

He pulled back, a wicked smile curving his lips at the thickness of her voice.

“Soon you will not have to imagine,” he promised.

Annoyed with the indecent ease with which he could make her heart pound and her body ache, Juliet turned her attention to the heavy door blocking their path.

“Magic?” Victor softly demanded.

She held out a hand, lightly touching the dull metal of the door handle, stiffening when the door slid open with shocking ease.

“There are no hexes or curses.”

“No silver,” Victor deduced. Like most demons, vampires were lethally allergic to silver. “A spell?”

Juliet shook her head, ignoring the urge to gag at the putrid scent of unwashed bodies and human waste as she stepped to peer into the gloom of the cavern.

She expected the dozen or so people huddled against the far wall, and even their deplorable state of misery. Whether human or demon, being held as a prisoner was a ghastly fate.

No, but what did surprise her was the realization that none of them were bound in any way.

No cages, no shackles, no magic.

She turned to stab Victor with a puzzled frown. “What is keeping them in there?”

“Pure fear.” His expression hardened. “There is nothing to be done, little one. So long as the prisoners are held captive by their terror, then nothing will induce them to leave.”

“Could you glamour them?”

“I am powerful, but there is no vampire who could glamour so many at once.”

She gnawed her bottom lip, considering their limited options.

“Then we must discover something that will convince them that it is more dangerous to remain than to flee.”

His brows arched at her odd request. “I do not believe you would appreciate my means of convincing them just how dangerous I can be.”

“No, I did not mean you,” she hastily said, appalled at the mere thought of the poor creatures being tormented by a rampaging vampire. “I know a spell, but I have not attempted to use it for years.”

The silver eyes flickered with a wary surprise. “I did not know you could perform magic.”

She reached into her pocket to pull out her mother’s amulet, ruefully wishing she possessed the sort of power that would frighten a vampire. Then perhaps she would have the courage to accept Victor as her lover.

“I have no talent for true magic, but I can perform a few small illusions.”

“I do not like this.”

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Is there anything you do like?”

His gaze flared over her with a blatant hunger. “You.”

Good . . . Lord.

Juliet hurriedly bent down, using her finger to draw a circle in the dirt, and at the same time hiding the heat staining her cheeks.

“Stand back and do not break the circle.”

Closing her eyes, Juliet rubbed her fingers over the amulet, using her mother’s lingering powers to bolster her own as she filled her mind with the image of a Saulgon demon in full bloodlust. The actual demon had been extinct from this world for centuries, but the sight of the hulking creature with its gray, rotting flesh and double row of razor-sharp fangs was enough to break the nerve of the most courageous warrior.

At the same moment, she conjured the sensation of choking terror that had assailed her in the outer chamber.

Whispering the words of power, she sent the illusion spreading outward, touching the minds of the captives.

Engrossed with her spell, Juliet failed to notice the startled cries, and even the sudden pounding of footsteps. It was not until Victor snatched her into his arms and pressed her painfully against the wall of the tunnel that she realized she had very nearly been trampled by the fleeing prisoners.

“Damn,” Victor snarled, keeping her wrapped tightly in his arms even after the last of the terrified humans had disappeared down the tunnel.

“It worked,” she breathed, astonishment blending with relief as she sensed the prisoners continuing their frantic flight through the tunnels.

“Too bloody well,” Victor growled next to her ear.

“What do you mean?”

“The escaping prisoners have attracted precisely the attention we hoped to avoid.”

Shaking off the fog of her spell, Juliet stiffened as a violent wave of fury pulsed through the tunnel. Dear God. Something was charging toward them. And she did not have to be a full-blooded demon to know it intended harm.

Profound, agonizing harm.

The thought had barely flared through her mind when Victor scooped her off her feet and was bolting across the cavern to a narrow tunnel that Juliet hadn’t noticed until that moment.

“Victor,” she breathed, fear crawling over her skin.

“Just hold on, little one.”

She did. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she unashamedly clung to him, knowing that without Victor she would still be stumbling across the cavern. Few things could match a vampire for speed.

Well, few things except for the creature chasing them, she realized with a stab of regret.

No matter how swiftly Victor sped through the tunnels, or how often he darted into side corridors, the menacing pursuer continued to grow closer.

“We will never be able to outrun it,” she at last muttered.

“I fear you are right.” Coming to a grudging halt, Victor placed her on her feet, his beautiful features grim. “It appears we must fight.”

Juliet gave a sharp shake of her head. “No.”

“No?”

“This is not your battle,” she said, unconsciously pressing her hands to his chest. “You can escape. I will distract—”

He muttered an incoherent curse before grabbing her face and kissing her with a combination of frustration and yearning need.

“I will not leave you,” he husked against her mouth. “I will never leave you.”

“Victor—”

With a firm motion he thrust her back and turned to place himself between her and the approaching danger.

“Stay behind me.”

She smacked him in the middle of the back, as aggravated with herself as with the stubborn vampire.

It was not that she regretted her decision to rescue Levet. Even if it meant facing her own death. She was done with hiding from the world. But she had not considered the unfortunate consequence that her decision would endanger Victor.

But then, why would she?

She had always known the Marquis DeRosa desired her in his bed, but it had never occurred to her that he would involve himself in her mad quest. He had not survived for so long by being reckless.

Now the thought that he might be hurt or even...

No, she could not even bear to imagine such a cruel fate.

“Damn you.”

“I was damned many centuries ago,” he assured her smoothly. “Let us hope it is enough to convince the Jinn to seek easier prey.”

Juliet sucked in a startled breath, instantly distracted by his words.

“Jinn? Are you certain?”

“Regrettably.”

“I thought they were a myth.”

He shrugged, still turned to face the oncoming danger.

“The Commission has sought to keep them from mingling among the humans,” he said, referring to the ruling council among the demon world. “But they occasionally flout the restrictions placed upon them and create chaos among the masses. Which explains why the wood sprites have gone into hiding.”

Juliet unconsciously clutched her mother’s amulet, a sensation of dread creeping down her spine.

“Lovely. How do we defeat it?”

“We don’t,” he managed to mutter before a dark shape abruptly lunged from the shadows.

Even though she was prepared, a scream was wrenched from Juliet’s throat as the creature launched itself forward. Although it had taken the form of a human there was nothing reassuring about the beast. In fact, there was something highly unnerving about the delicately carved features and thick mane of golden blond hair that gave the Jinn its luminous beauty, when combined with the malignant lust for pain glowing in the large, lavender eyes.

Venomous beauty.

Clutching her mother’s amulet in her hand, Juliet futilely wracked her brain for a spell. Not that she possessed the power to actually harm the Jinn, but she might be able to distract him long enough—

There was an unholy roar and Victor launched forward, his fangs fully extended and his frigid power blasting through the air.

Juliet instinctively stumbled backward, wise enough to give the two ferocious predators plenty of space. It was a common tragedy for harmless humans or lesser demons to be crushed when caught between more powerful species. Besides, she needed room to draw her circle if she was struck by a sudden inspiration.

A possibility that was increasingly unlikely as Victor and the Jinn collided with terrifying force.

In fascinated horror, she watched the massive battle, realizing that there was no means of casting a spell without risking Victor.

Her stomach clenched as the two warriors savagely fought, Victor’s fangs ripping deep gouges in the Jinn’s perfect skin as he shoved it against the wall. In return the Jinn filled the air with staccato jolts of energy that brought down showers of jagged stones smashing onto Victor’s head.

Juliet bit her lip as she caught the exotic scent of Victor’s blood. As a vampire he could not bleed to death, but the loss of blood would quickly drain his strength.

Victor again slammed the beast against the wall, his fangs striking over and over with sickening force. The Jinn, however, appeared indifferent to his vicious injuries. No, it was more than indifference.

The violet eyes sparkled with an unmistakable pleasure, as if the nasty creature relished the pain. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed the battle.

In either case, Juliet sensed that the Jinn was merely toying with Victor, and that when he wearied of the game, something very bad was going to occur.

For both of them.

On the edge of panic, Juliet absurdly found herself searching her pockets, as if she might discover a hidden weapon. It was hardly shocking that she found nothing more than a bit of lint and the small crystal from her father. She had come to the docks to rescue Levet, not to wage war against a mythical demon.

Juliet cursed in frustration, gripping the crystal tightly in her palm.

She needed—

She gave a jump of surprise as the crystal abruptly flared with heat, almost as if it were feeding off her terrified emotions.

With a frown she opened her hand, realizing that the soft glow that always surrounded the crystal when she held it was decidedly brighter, the pulsing center seeming to echo her heartbeat.

For years she had attempted to call on the gifts of her imp blood with little more to show for her efforts than minor hexes and lingering headaches. Now she could actually feel the tingles of power darting through her body.

She stilled in shock. Was it truly possible?

Before she could consider whether it was all nothing more than a fluke, she heard a low rumbling from the Jinn.

Good lord, was that . . . laughter?

A sickening horror filled her as a familiar sensation of prickling electricity swirled through the air. She had suspected that bad things would happen when the bastard grew tired of playing. Now her fears were about to be confirmed beyond her wildest nightmare.

Instinctively she charged forward, but it was already too late.

With a massive shove, the Jinn freed himself from Victor’s grasp and tossed the vampire against the far wall. Stunned by the brutal impact, Victor crumpled to the ground, his pale face marred with blood and his arm hanging at an odd angle. Without giving Victor the opportunity to recover, the Jinn raised his hand and a sizzling bolt of lightning erupted from the tip of his finger.

Juliet was blinded by the violent burst of light, her ears ringing as the solid rock wall shattered. She cried out as she dropped beside Victor’s unmoving form, leaning over to wrap her arms around him in a protective motion.

“Victor . . .” she breathed, cruel pain wrenching her heart as she held him close, planting frantic kisses over his pale, beautiful face. “Please . . .”

She tasted his blood on her lips and felt the dampness of her tears falling down her cheeks, but her thoughts were consumed by the sense of the Jinn moving ever closer.

Did he intend to kill them both with his undoubted command of the elements?

Or was he plotting something even more hideous?

Squeezing shut her eyes, Juliet refused to accept failure. If she could not defeat the Jinn, then she must find the means to escape with Victor.

An easy enough task had she been a full-blooded imp.

Imps with any talent were capable of producing portals that could move them from place to place in the blink of an eye. Her father had been particularly skilled with such magic.

But, of course, Juliet had never managed more than a weak gateway that collapsed the moment she attempted to enter it. And even that had left her exhausted for days.

Tonight, however, she did not allow herself to recall her innumerable failures.

Instead, she poured her thoughts and energy into the crystal still clutched in her hand, along with her mother’s amulet. If she’d ever needed her parents’ assistance, this was it.

Burying her face in the rich satin of Victor’s hair, she willed the portal to form around them, sending up a silent prayer she did not kill them both.

Victor could feel Juliet wrap herself around him, obviously attempting to protect him from the advancing Jinn. With an ancient curse, he struggled to regain command of his battered body to push her aside.

By the gods, he would not allow Juliet to be harmed.

Not even if it meant—

His uncharacteristic flare of heroism was rudely interrupted as Juliet tightened her arms around him and the entire world shifted beneath him.

As a vampire, Victor was incapable of sensing magic, but he could not fail to notice the tunnel melting away to utter blackness before he landed with jarring force on a damp cobblestone street with the night breeze blowing in his face.

Briefly disconcerted, he held himself perfectly still, absorbing the realization that he was lying flat on his back in the middle of London with Juliet sprawled on top of him.

He rolled to one side, carefully cradling the tiny, unconscious woman in his arms as he scanned the area around them.

Bloody hell.

Juliet must have created a portal to rescue the both of them from certain death, but at what cost?

The stench filling the air warned him that they were still dangerously near the docks, but thankfully there was no scent of the Jinn. Nor any other predators besides those who owed their loyalty to him.

Sensing one of his servants hurrying in their direction, Victor grimly rose to his feet, holding Juliet against his chest. An unfamiliar torment twisted his dead heart as he noted her unnatural pallor and the pain that tightened her features even in her deep state of slumber.

She had come perilously close to draining herself beyond the point of no return.

Too damnably close.

“Johan,” he called softly, knowing the young vampire would hear him despite being several blocks away. “Find a carriage.”

“Yes, master.”

There was a short delay, then the sound of horseshoes striking against cobblestones broke the thick silence. Victor watched the elegant black carriage turn the corner and come to a halt in front of him.

Leaping from the driver’s bench, the massive vampire was forced to calm the nervous horse before moving to offer Victor a deep bow.

“Master.” Although attired in rough wool clothing with his blond hair pulled into a simple braid, there was no masking the brewing danger that shrouded Johan. He was a warrior poised to kill. Straightening, the younger vampire narrowed his gaze as he took in Victor’s slowly healing wounds and the unconscious female draped across his arms. “You must feed, my lord. Shall I find a host?”

“Later.” Victor easily dismissed his need for blood. At the moment his only thought was to get Juliet to the safety of his lair. “Return us to my estate.”

“At once.”

With a blur of motion, Johan pulled open the carriage door, waiting for Victor to settle on the leather cushion before slamming the door shut and returning to his seat atop the carriage. Then with a mental command he had the horse racing through the narrow streets with a reckless indifference to the occasional vehicles or even pedestrians that crossed their path.

Within a half hour they were wheeling up the long drive to his isolated mansion. As they pulled up to the wide veranda, Victor did not wait for the carriage to come to a halt, simply opening the door and leaping onto the flagstone courtyard. With the same impatience, he charged up the stairs, fully prepared for a uniformed servant to tug open the wide double doors.

“Uriel,” he called, crossing the marble foyer and heading toward the private rooms at the back of the mansion.

With commendable speed the angelic vampire appeared at Victor’s side, his brows arching as he caught sight of Juliet in his arms.

“Do you wish me to call for a human healer?”

Pausing before the door at the end of the corridor, Victor released a trickle of power to open the heavy locks. No one, not even his servants, was allowed in his personal lair without his permission.

“Not yet.”

He glanced down at Juliet, a frustrated fury racing through him at the tumble of fiery curls that were in such contrast to her ashen face and the bruises already visible beneath her closed eyes. She looked like a crushed flower, he painfully acknowledged before viciously pushing the thought away.

No. She was merely exhausted. He would accept nothing else.

“You have food prepared?” he growled.

“Yes, the”—Uriel stumbled over the unfamiliar word. It had been several centuries since the vampire had eaten solid food—“chef was most uncooperative, complaining at being taken from his bed and then insisting the markets were closed and he could not discover the necessary ingredients to prepare a meal.”

“I assume you managed to convince him to comply with your request?”

“Certainly. He promised a seven-course meal would be awaiting your approval.”

“Ensure he keeps it warm until Juliet recovers.”

Uriel gave a dip of the head. “The guests have been removed from the property and the upper chambers have been prepared for the female.”

Victor’s arms tightened. “The female will remain with me.”

A rare shock rippled over Uriel’s face. “But . . .”

“You have something to say, Uriel?”

“It will soon be dawn.”

“I am well aware of the time.”

Uriel’s gaze shifted to the woman in his arms. “Then you are taking the woman to your lair? Your private lair?”

Victor’s lips twisted; he did not entirely blame his young servant. He had never, in all his countless years, allowed a female to enter his lair.

“Your swift grasp of the situation is what I have always admired most about you, Uriel,” he said dryly, stepping into the small, conspicuously plain room. “Be certain we are not disturbed.”

Expecting his command to be obeyed, Victor slammed shut the door and crossed the floor to pull the lever hidden behind a particularly ugly oil portrait. Silently the paneling slid aside to reveal stone steps that led to the deep chambers beneath.

Passing through several more heavy doors, Victor at last reached his private resting place, crossing the barren room to lay Juliet on his bed.

On the point of covering her with a thick fur blanket to ward off the chill of being so deeply underground, Victor slowly froze, dumbfounded by the sensations that were quietly settling in the center of his heart. Sensations that he had barely noticed in his frantic haste to get Juliet to safety.

Now he couldn’t deny the shocking truth.

He could actually feel Juliet.

Not just as a vampire conscious of another creature in his lair. Or with the awareness of a man near a beautiful woman.

But deep inside him.

Barely aware he was moving, Victor leaned down and with a jerk he had ripped open the sleeve of her loose linen smock.

“Bloody hell.”

Victor allowed his gaze to study the intricate crimson tattoo that was forming beneath the inner skin of Juliet’s forearm. A tattoo that was unmistakably the mark of his bonding.

He was mated.

To Juliet.

Irrevocably and eternally.

Chapter Five

Juliet opened her eyes. It was odd. One moment she had been deeply asleep, and the next she was wide awake, her heart pounding with fear.

With a small gasp she abruptly sat upright, anxiously glancing about the unfamiliar surroundings. She was not reassured by the stone walls that were covered by ancient tapestries or the heavy wooden furnishings that spoke of a splendid but barbaric past. Only the vast fireplace that was blazing with cheerful flames offered a hint of welcome.

“Victor?” she breathed.

There was a cool rush of air, then Victor was at her side, his raven hair left loose to frame his pale, perfect face and his muscular body covered by a brocade robe.

Juliet shivered, a strange yearning stirring in the pit of her stomach. Stripped of his elegant attire that added a layer of civilization, the vampire was savagely, irresistibly handsome.

“I am here.” Settling next to her on the wide bed, Victor held out a crystal glass. “Mulled wine, little one?”

“Thank you.” She was relieved to discover her hand did not shake as she reached to take the goblet and sipped the warm wine. It was perfect. Spiced just as she liked it, with only the faintest hint of cinnamon. She cleared her throat. “Where are we?”

“My private lair.” A smile curved his lips, but his eyes were watchful, predatory. “Dinner will be served whenever you wish.”

Juliet blinked in surprise. Not only at the notion that Victor would consider she would be hungry when she awoke, but that he would bring her to his lair.

It was . . . inconceivable.

And strangely exciting.

She licked her dry lips, her heart leaping as his gaze dropped to watch the nervous gesture.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Several hours.” His brows drew together in a sudden frown. “You risked far too much by creating a portal. You might have killed yourself by calling on so much power with no training.”

She drank her wine, ruefully accepting she was a fool if she’d expected gratitude for saving this vampire’s life.

“It was not as if there was a lot of choice,” she muttered.

He looked as if he intended to continue his lecture on her foolishness, only to give a faint shake of his head. No doubt accepting that she was beyond his ability to train.

“We will discuss this newfound desire to play with fire later.” He reached to gently tuck a stray curl behind her ear, his slender fingers lingering to brush her cheek, his cool touch sending sparks of heated awareness through her blood. “There are more important matters we must address.”

Feeling as if her mouth were suddenly as dry as the Sahara, Juliet took a large gulp of the wine, indifferent to the dangers of drinking on an empty stomach. Perhaps if her head was a bit fuzzy then she would not be so acutely aware that she was completely alone with Victor . . . in his lair . . . on his bed....

“Of course,” she managed to mutter. “We must consider what is to be done with the Jinn.”

Easily sensing the rapid beat of her heart and the rush of her blood, Victor settled closer on the bed, his hand reaching to tug aside the heavy fur cover.

“Later.”

“But Levet . . .”

“It is still daylight. The gargoyle will be in statue form for at least another three hours. There is no means to rescue him until he awakens.”

Victor reached to pluck the empty glass from her fingers, leaning across her to set it on a low mahogany chest.

“Are you not going to have any wine?” she inanely demanded, shivering as he deliberately brushed against her body.

“Not tonight, I think. I prefer that my senses not be dulled when I am in your company. Your mere presence is quite intoxicating enough.” His voice was husky with a thickening accent; the scent of sandalwood filled the air. “Have you fully recovered?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, even as she wondered if she were speaking the entire truth. It would be convenient to blame her giddy excitement on the events of the day, but she was not completely naive. “In fact, I should be returning home.”

He laughed softly. Just a breath of sound but it flowed through her body, as potent as the mulled wine.

“You are home, little one.”

Home.

With Victor.

Her heart clenched with a dangerous longing.

“Ridiculous,” she whispered.

The smoldering silver gaze lowered to her unsteady lips. “It is perhaps lacking a feminine touch, but I assure you that it will be refurbished to suit your pleasure. Whatever you desire shall be yours.”

It was a flamboyant promise but oddly she did not doubt him. “My lord . . .”

“What is it?”

Juliet spoke the confusion that had besieged her since the moment she had awoken.

“I did not think a vampire would allow others to enter his private lair.”

He stilled, as if considering how best to answer her. Juliet watched in fascination as the firelight danced over his perfect features, adding a hint of mystery. Suddenly she possessed the most desperate urge to shove her fingers into the rich curtain of his raven hair and tug him down so she could drown in his kisses.

“A vampire will share his lair with one other,” he said, at last breaking the silence. “His mate.”

She abruptly tensed. “Mate?”

He moved to take her arm, laying it across his lap. Then, with a deliberate motion, he pushed aside the torn sleeve to reveal the crimson tattoo that shimmered beneath her skin.

“Mate.”

Juliet forgot how to breathe as she stared at the unmistakable marking.

For two years she had struggled to keep Victor at a safe distance. She had sworn to herself that she would never become a mindless toy for the vampire.

But over the past hours she had been forced to admit that she had been far from successful in keeping the beautiful demon out of her heart. Why else would she have preferred to die than to watch Victor harmed?

But to become his mate. Good Lord.

“How did . . .” She lifted her head to meet Victor’s unwavering gaze. “How is this possible? I thought that you must exchange blood to complete the bond.”

He shrugged. “You must have taken some of my blood during our journey through the portal.”

A heat stained her cheeks as Juliet belatedly recalled her frantic kisses over his bloody face.

“And now we are mated?”

“Not . . . precisely.”

She frowned in confusion. “I do not understand.”

“I am mated to you, but until you are prepared to accept the bond and offer your blood, it remains incomplete.”

“So.” She took a moment to consider the implications, a rather wicked smile slowly curving her lips. “You are bound to me, but I am at liberty to find another?”

“You are mine.” He leaned forward, the silver eyes shimmering with a dangerous purpose as she hastily pressed back against the pillows. He stretched his long length beside her, remaining raised on his elbow to study her pale face. “I was a fool not to have recognized the truth the moment I met you. There has never been another female who has fascinated me as you have. Even when you are at your most infuriating I still crave to be in your presence.”

A shudder of anticipation wracked her body even as she narrowed her eyes.

“I am infuriating?”

“Admit it, little one. You do love to challenge me.”

“Only because you are so insufferably arrogant, my lord—”

“Victor,” he interrupted, his fingers running through her curls and spreading them across the pillows. “I want to hear my name upon your lips.”

A delicious heat curled through the pit of her stomach, sending tiny tremors through her body. For once, however, Juliet made no effort to deny her scorching reaction to Victor’s touch.

She was done fighting a battle she could not win.

“Victor. It suits you.”

His hand moved to cup her cheek, his touch flowing through her until her toes curled in response.

“Just as Juliet suits you,” he husked, his fingers drifting down the length of her throat. “You intrigued me from the moment I first caught sight of you. The candlelight shimmering like fire off your magnificent hair. Your features as pure as those of an angel. The elegance of your every movement. It stirred a hunger in me that haunts me no matter where I go.”

Some deep part of her whispered that she should be frightened as his fingers briefly lingered upon the pulse at the base of her throat before gliding along the opening of her smock.

Not that he would physically harm her. That had never been her fear. And, of course, now he was bonded to her. A vampire would destroy the world to protect his mate.

No, he would not injure her, but she was not so foolish as to believe that she could give herself to Victor without consequences.

Fright, however, was the last thing Juliet was feeling as his fingers brushed over the curve of her bare breast. She arched upward as a jolt of pleasure burst through her.

“Victor.”

“Look at me, little one,” he whispered.

Allowing herself to become lost in the silver gaze, she made no demur as he tugged the smock over her head and tossed it aside. The remainder of her clothing swiftly followed until she was lying naked on the satin sheets.

The world had somehow slipped away. There was nothing but the dark eyes and the slender fingers that tenderly explored her body as if he were memorizing every angle and curve of her.

“This is madness,” Juliet whispered.

The faintest smile curled the corner of his mouth. “This is fate.”

“Fate?”

“Destiny.” His head lowered, his lips brushing her mouth as he spoke. “I have waited an eternity to find you. I will never harm you.”

Of their own will her hands lifted to grasp his shoulders. The brocade was smooth and delicious to the touch and she found her fingers stroking down the wide width of his back.

A low sigh hissed through his lips. His kiss became more demanding, his tongue dipping into her mouth with a sweep of wetness. At the same moment his hand cupped her breast and his thumb rubbed over the tight peak.

Juliet bucked against him as the shock of sensations jolted through her.

“Oh.”

He pulled back enough that she could see herself reflected in his shimmering silver eyes. Or at least someone who looked vaguely like her.

Her curls were tumbled like a river of fire onto the pillows, her face flushed with pleasure, and her parted lips still damp from his kiss.

She looked like a decadent sacrifice offered up for some sensual beast.

“What has brought that frown to your beautiful brow?” he whispered.

Her attention returned to the man poised above her. Good heavens, he was so beautiful. Astonishingly beautiful. Unable to resist temptation, her fingers lifted to plunge into the heavy thickness of his hair.

Ah . . . yes. It was just as soft and silky as she had imagined.

“I have wanted you from the moment I saw you in the ballroom,” she confessed in soft tones. “But that does not mean I intend to complete the mating bond.”

His chuckle slithered down her spine. “You are my mate. You hold my heart and soul. We are one, whether you are too stubborn to admit the truth or not.”

Holding her gaze, he pulled the brocade robe from his body. Her eyes widened at the sight of the hard, chiseled muscles that rippled beneath the ivory skin that was tattooed with a beautiful dragon. His shoulders were broad, his chest so pale and smooth the nipples appeared startlingly dark in contrast. Her gaze refused to lower beyond the contoured ripple of his stomach. Her body already felt as if it were burning from within.

Holding her gaze, he slid slowly downward. The rub of his skin against hers made her breath catch painfully in her throat.

His lips touched her collarbone, tracing the delicate line with the tip of his tongue before slowly traveling down the curve of her breast. Juliet shifted restlessly beneath the teasing mouth. Good Lord, nothing had ever felt so wondrous.

“You are so warm,” he whispered against her skin, turning his head just enough to capture the tip of her nipple between his lips.

“Blessed Mother.”

She arched off the bed and her hands slid to frame his face in silent encouragement. Whatever she had thought she knew of passion had never included the tender caresses that were sending a storm of sensations lashing through her body.

With obvious expertise he used his tongue and even his teeth to torment her nipple to a hard peak. Her eyes squeezed shut as she groaned low in her throat. He turned his attention to her other breast, his hands sliding down the curve of her waist.

Juliet was lost in the tide of building sensations when his arms encircled her and without warning he had rolled onto his back. In one powerful motion she discovered herself perched on top of his hard frame. Her eyes widened as she regarded the fiercely handsome countenance.

“Victor?”

“Do not fear,” he murmured as his hands smoothed down the curve of her back.

“What are you doing?”

His lips twitched in soft amusement. “If you have not noticed, I am a rather large vampire, while you, my beloved, are delectably tiny.”

She smiled wryly. “Even if I had not noticed our size differences, your habit of calling me ‘little one’ would have given me a hint.”

His expression settled in oddly somber lines even as his hands continued to send shocks of pleasure through her body.

“I have never made a secret of how desperately I want you, Juliet,” he said, his voice husky with need. “But what happens, or does not happen, in this bed will be decided by you.”

An unexpected thrill of power raced through her as she gazed down at the compelling man beneath her. She better than anyone understood the effort it took Victor to relinquish control. He was an ancient demon who had gained his position by brutal force.

Such a gesture revealed not only that he truly understood her freshly discovered need to take command of her life, but also a trust that was nothing less than astonishing.

Quite willing to prove her gratitude, Juliet leaned downward, outlining his sensuous lips with the tip of her tongue.

“Does this please you?” She nibbled a path down his clenched jaw and then the strong column of his neck, savoring his intoxicating taste.

He growled, his mouth parting to reveal his fully extended fangs, and a cool surge of power washed over her.

“You please me.”

She slowly retraced her path, a heat pooling in the pit of her stomach.

“Are you certain?” she husked. “I fear I am not overly experienced in such matters.”

“Allow me to show you.”

Grasping her face in his hands, he lifted himself upward, capturing her mouth in a kiss of stark hunger. Juliet shivered with pleasure, her mouth parting to allow his tongue to tangle with hers.

Sinking into the bliss of his devouring kiss, she stroked restless hands over the satin smoothness of his chest. A delicious excitement swirled through her body as she felt the hard thrust of his arousal pressing against her lower stomach.

As if sensing the growing urgency of her desire, Victor pulled back, his body mesmerizing in the soft glow of the fire.

“Juliet, I need you,” he said. “I need to be inside you.”

His voice flowed over her skin like honey, flooding her body with liquid heat and making her fingers dig into the hard muscles of his chest with a flare of aching desire.

“Yes,” she breathed, shuddering as his hands drifted over the curve of her hips.

With infinite care he explored the length of her thighs and then, with a small tug, he parted her legs until they fell on either side of his body. Juliet muttered her approval against his lips, but even prepared she gave a strangled cry when his clever fingers stroked through her damp heat.

“Sssh,” he soothed softly. “Soon we shall be one. One soul. One flesh.”

His low words seemed to echo deep inside her, but she ignored the dangerous warmth that settled in the center of her heart. Instead she concentrated on his finger that teased the tiny pulse of her pleasure.

“Not soon . . . now,” she muttered.

His low growl filled the air, his erection pressing eagerly against her damp heat.

“You are certain?”

Certain? Her nails dug into his chest until she drew blood. She had never been more certain of anything in her entire life.

“Please, Victor.”

“Yes.”

Victor’s hands were pressing at her lower back as his hips lifted and he was entering her in one sure stroke.

Her breath caught, but not from pain.

Searing pleasure rushed through her and she pressed her face onto his chest. She could feel him stroke into her before pulling out and returning with a slow, relentless pressure.

“Dear Lord.”

“Mate,” he whispered as his hips lifted over and over. “My mate.”

“I did not know anything could feel so . . .”

“How does it feel, sweet Juliet?”

“Wondrous,” she breathed, her body moving in perfect rhythm with his.

His soft chuckle filled the air with a thick satisfaction.

“You are mine,” he vowed. “Mine for eternity.”

She moaned as her body began to tighten with a shimmering anticipation. His steady, relentless pace was building a fire deep within her that threatened to burst out of control.

“My mate,” he breathed, lifting his head to nuzzle at her neck.

His slight shift was enough to press him even deeper within her and with a force that caught her off guard the tension that coiled between her legs abruptly burst into a thousand pieces.

She cried out and squeezed shut her eyes, struggling not to swoon beneath the tide of sensations. It was overwhelming. A joy that edged perilously close to pain.

“Victor?”

With a moan, he laid his head on the pillows. For a moment she simply gazed into the handsome countenance, telling herself that what had just occurred was no more than incredible sex. Victor had, after all, near a thousand years and countless women to perfect his expertise, but something deep in her heart refused to accept the lie.

Staring into the silver eyes she knew she was bound closer to him than any other person in the entire world.

They were one.

One soul.

One flesh.

Mates.

Chapter Six

Seated across the table from his mate, Victor ruefully accepted that any hope that Juliet would be more compliant now that she was his lover was doomed to abysmal failure. Polishing off the last of the roasted duck, potatoes stewed in a delicate mushroom sauce, and freshly baked bread, Juliet sat back in her chair and offered him a stubborn glare.

“You can roar and bellow all you wish. I am not going to change my mind.”

With an effort, Victor attempted to ignore the captivating sight of Juliet wearing nothing more than his brocade robe, her mane of fiery curls spilling down her back and her ivory features tinted with a delicate flush.

Not that he was particularly successful.

There would never be a moment that he would not desire his mate.

Even when she infuriated him.

“I do not comprehend why you must be so unreasonable.”

“Me?” She arched a brow. “It was your decision to go on the hunt for the Jinn.”

“Because he cannot be permitted to linger in London. Not only do his powers attract the attention of the humans, but his mere presence is a threat to my position among the demons.”

She appeared remarkably unimpressed with his logic.

“So you are allowed to risk your life to remain clan chief, but I am forbidden from rescuing a friend from potential death?”

He paused, his vast experience with women warning him this was a trap with no escape.

“I would not use the word ‘forbidden.’ ”

“Then what word would you use?”

“Strongly discouraged,” he suggested.

She snorted. “I do not consider a threat to tie me to the bed as strong discouragement.”

He growled, his fangs fully extended and aching with a hunger that would never be sated.

“Me either,” he husked, leaving his chair and rounding the table with a slow smile of anticipation. “I consider that an invitation to paradise.”

Juliet hastily rose to her feet, her expression stern although she could not disguise the heat simmering in her beautiful eyes as her gaze skimmed down his body, covered in nothing more than a loose pair of satin pants he had brought from his recent journey to China.

“Victor, you are not going to distract me.”

Easily scooping her off her feet, Victor headed directly for the nearby bed, tumbling them both onto the silken sheets. With a swift roll he managed to end up on top.

“I will admit that was my original intent,” he murmured, burying his face in the curve of her neck. “But I believe I have been hoisted on my own petard. You are delectable.”

Her arms circled his neck, her body instinctively arching beneath him.

“Victor.”

The intoxicating scent of peaches filled his senses. “Hmmm?”

“This changes nothing,” she muttered. “I am going with you to the docks.”

Victor pulled back at her stubborn insistence, an unfamiliar pang twisting his gut.

“Why does this Levet mean so much to you?”

She blinked. “Are you . . . jealous?”

“Of a stunted, outcast gargoyle? Do not be absurd.”

The emerald eyes narrowed. “Victor?”

“You belong here with me,” he said before he could halt the revealing words. “Not with Hawthorne and that creature.”

She studied him with an all too knowing gaze. “You believe if I rescue Levet I will return to Justin?”

Victor shied from the mere notion he was jealous of the mage, or the deformed gargoyle. He was a powerful vampire. A clan chief. The most honored creature in all the demon world.

“No, I believe it is a fool’s errand and I will not let you deliberately put yourself in danger.”

She smiled, not fooled for a moment.

“Justin has no claim on my affections,” she assured him softly, her fingers threading through his hair. “He offered me protection and that is all I ever desired from him.”

He studied her pale face, searching for . . . what?

Reassurance?

“You care for him?” he gritted.

“No.”

“Then why do you remain with him?”

Her fingers continued to stroke through his hair, no doubt sensing his unnerving vulnerability. Perhaps in a century or two he would be accustomed to his overwhelming need for this woman, but for tonight he was still raw from the aching desire to complete the bonding.

“Our arrangement was mutually beneficial. My talents offered Justin the means to acquire his magical collection and I was given a roof over my head and security from all but the most persistent demons.”

“I can offer you greater protection,” he said, infuriated at the mere thought of Juliet depending on another man. “Nothing would be allowed to harm you while you are in my care.”

She smiled wryly. “That I have never doubted.”

“Then why do you hesitate?”

She shrugged, the movement causing the robe to gape, offering a tantalizing glimpse of her naked breasts. Victor swallowed a groan, his body fully aroused.

“At first I feared becoming another willing victim that you used and then tossed aside.”

“And now?”

She met his gaze squarely. “Now I fear becoming your puppet.”

Victor clenched his jaw, offended by her words despite the numerous women who had drifted in and out of his life. They had been mere dalliances.

Or dinner.

Juliet was the other half of his soul.

“Even if I wished such a ridiculous thing, I am not capable of enthralling you,” he informed her, his voice edged with a distinct chill.

She gave a sharp tug on his hair, a rueful amusement shimmering in her emerald eyes.

“No, but you are capable of insisting upon others obeying your every command.”

A portion of his pique was eased at her obvious teasing. “That is only because I know what is best for my people.”

“And your mate?”

“Of course.”

She rolled her eyes. “There, you have proven my point.”

Victor shifted so he could cup her face in his hand, knowing that while his instinct would be to protect his mate, he would have to learn not to ride roughshod over her.

“Juliet, if you wish me to admit that I am an overbearing brute who is accustomed to being obeyed, I will do so,” he said, giving a wry shake of his head. “I have been a clan chief for a number of centuries, while being a mate is all rather new.”

She stilled, studying his face with wide eyes. “What are you saying?”

“That your happiness is more important than my need to control you.”

“Then you will allow me to make my own decisions? Even if you do not agree with them?” She narrowed her eyes as he hesitated. “Victor?”

With a grim determination, Victor thrust aside centuries of absolute authority. To be mated meant compromise. Even if that compromise threatened to drive him to utter madness.

“Yes, but I hold the right to attempt to change your mind.”

Knowing just how difficult his concession had been, Juliet readily smiled, her hands drifting down his bare back in a sweet promise.

“Agreed.”

Shivering in ready response, he brushed his lips over the soft skin of her temple, sensing the rapid beat of her pulse. The hunger to taste her blood was near unbearable, but he ignored his ravaging thirst.

“I have conceded to your demands, little one. Now it is your turn.”

“Does this compromise include removing my robe?” she husked.

He chuckled. “It is my robe, although what is mine is now yours, and it most certainly is going to be removed.”

She allowed her nails to scrape lightly over his skin, the sensation sending pleasure jolting through him.

“So confident, my lord?”

He pressed a hard, hungry kiss on her lips before pulling back to regard her with a brooding gaze.

“Desperate. But that is not the compromise I speak of.”

“Then what do you desire of me?”

“I want you to leave Hawthorne,” he said, his voice revealing he was unwilling to bargain on this point. “Your place is in this lair with me.”

“But our bonding is not yet complete,” she said softly. “Would that not mean we were living in sin?”

He frowned at her foolish words. The connection between them was sacred.

“You are my mate.”

“But you are not yet my mate.”

A bleak, ruthless pain spread through his body. He had rarely given thought to taking a mate. Most vampires never encountered the one destined to make them whole. But on the few occasions he had considered the possibility, he had never envisioned binding himself to a woman who did not desire him in return.

“I see.”

She bit her lower lip at his frigid tone, her expression rueful.

“I do not think that you do, Victor, and it’s no wonder. I am making a complete muddle of this.”

“Of your wish to return to Hawthorne?”

“Of my very awkward proposal.”

“Proposal?”

She licked her lips, the nervous gesture astonishingly charming.

“Victor, would you be my mate?”

A wary hope replaced the icy chill of rejection, although he was careful to hide it behind a scowl. He might be mated, but that did not mean he had lost all pride.

“Juliet?”

Her breath caught, a hint of distress marring her beautiful face. “What? Did I do something wrong? Are women not allowed to—”

He captured her lips in a kiss of urgent longing, allowing her to feel just how desperately he wanted to complete their bonding.

“You are certain?” he muttered between frenzied kisses. “The mating is irrevocable.”

Her hands moved in a restless path up and down his back, each caress sending sizzling sparks of heat through his body.

“This mating has been irrevocable from the beginning,” she muttered.

“Thank the gods.” Kissing a path along her jaw, he paused to revel in the poignant scent of peaches and willing woman. “I did not believe you would ever come to your senses.”

She chuckled. “There are many who would claim I have lost them completely.”

He pulled back, his fangs throbbing in protest. This was too important a moment to rush.

“And what of you, little one?”

“Me?”

“Does the thought of becoming my mate please you?”

Her expression was somber as she framed his face in her hands. “Victor, since my parents’ death I have sought a place to call home.”

He frowned at the tender ache he could feel blooming in the center of her heart. It bothered him that he was helpless to protect her from the wounds of the past.

“You have never revealed how your parents were killed,” he said gently.

She winced, but she did not pull away. A victory, considering Juliet had never before trusted him enough to share her secrets.

“My father was considered beautiful, even among the fey,” she said, her voice so low even his acute hearing struggled to catch the words.

His gaze skimmed over her delicate features, lingering on the wide emerald eyes that spoke of her fey blood.

“That I well believe.”

A tremor shook her slender body, her nails unconsciously digging into his back. It was a pain Victor welcomed, wishing he could take away her wounds.

“Unfortunately, he attracted the attention of Morgana le Fey.”

Victor was startled by the mention of the queen. It had been centuries since she had retreated behind her protective mists.

“I did not know she ever left Avalon.”

“It was rumored she was hunting for some mystical weapon that is destined to kill her.” The emerald eyes flashed with a long-brewing hatred. “Instead she found my father.”

“And desired to take him as her lover.”

“Yes.”

Victor had heard rumors of the queen’s insatiable lust for beautiful men, as well as her habit of treating them like pretty baubles that were inevitably destroyed when she grew bored.

Juliet’s father had been destined for death from the moment he had caught the eye of the fickle Morgana le Fey.

“I presume your father declined her royal invitation?”

“He was not foolish enough to publicly reject her, but he attempted to flee with my mother and myself.”

“Morgana was no doubt displeased.”

“She commanded that we be hunted down and slaughtered.”

Victor flinched as his bond with Juliet allowed him to feel the savage intensity of her loss.

“They died to protect you.”

“Yes.” Her gaze lowered, as if she could hide the tears that filled her eyes. “They died and I was alone.”

“Never again,” Victor swore, cupping her chin and lifting her face until he could capture her bruised gaze. “I will be at your side for all eternity.”

Her hands swept up his back, the shadows lingering in her eyes.

“Victor.”

“Yes, my love?”

“I want you to be my mate.”

A fierce surge of savage hunger combined with pure joy in a potent explosion that left Victor reeling from the impact. Suddenly he felt as uncertain and awkward as a newly turned fledgling.

“Now?” he husked.

A smile of pure invitation curved her lips. “Now.”

“Bloody hell.”

Any hope of a slow, dignified mating that would reveal to Juliet just how much she meant to him was lost as he muttered a curse and swept her heavy curtain of hair to one side, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck.

He had an eternity to prove just how much he adored her.

For now, he was desperate to make this woman his.

His lover, his partner, his mate.

With one smooth strike his fangs slid easily through her skin, the taste of her blood hitting his tongue with staggering force.

It was perfect.

She was perfect.

Juliet moaned as he fed from her throat, her hands impatiently lowering to tug at his pants, her body arching in silent need. A need that Victor was quite eager to sate.

Reaching down, he ripped off the pants with one vicious jerk and tugged open her robe until there was nothing left between them. They were skin to skin, her delectable heat wrapping around him.

Allowing himself one precious moment to savor the anticipation, Victor chuckled softly as Juliet wrapped her legs around his hips with obvious impatience.

“Victor . . . please.”

Victor reluctantly tugged his fangs from her neck, using his tongue to close the bleeding wounds. He could not afford to be greedy. Not when Juliet was determined to rescue the ridiculous gargoyle. Any loss of blood might weaken her.

Besides, there was more than one means of being a part of her.

“Yes, little one,” he husked, settling between her spread legs and entering her with a slow, steady thrust.

Closing his eyes in pure bliss, Victor sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever god had seen fit to bless him with this beautiful, magnificent woman.

Chapter Seven

After a hot bath, Juliet pulled on a clean smock and pants that Victor had borrowed from the son of one of his vast stable of human servants. Like all vampires, he considered any sort of manual labor as being beneath him.

Unfortunately, he also possessed the vampire habit of forbidding any mirrors to be brought into their lair.

Brushing out her tangled curls, she awkwardly pulled her hair into a braid and tied it off with a thin strip of leather. No doubt she could have requested Victor to assist her, but she sensed that such an intimate act would soon have led them to the wide bed just behind her.

It was not that she wasn’t eager to feel Victor’s arms around her. Or to experience the intoxicating pleasure of having him feed from her vein. Good Lord, if she had a choice she would keep the delectable vampire in this private lair for the next century.

Unfortunately, the same bonds that allowed her to sense Victor’s unwavering love and commitment for her also revealed his heavy sense of duty.

He was clan chief. And that meant ridding London of the Jinn before the powerful demon could bring harm to Victor’s vampires.

“Juliet.”

The sound of Levet’s voice whispering through her head had Juliet on her feet, her heart slamming against her ribs in startled surprise.

“Levet,” she breathed, ignoring his rude intrusion as a wave of relief rushed through her. “Oh, thank God. I have been so worried.”

“Indeed?” the gargoyle said peevishly. “If you were so excessively worried then why have you not yet rescued me?”

“You might have mentioned that your captor is a full-blooded Jinn,” she snapped, stung by his unfair accusation.

“Ah . . . well, I . . .” He coughed in embarrassment. “Does it truly matter?”

“Does it matter? I very nearly was skewered by a bolt of lightning. If it had not been for Victor I would not have survived to rescue you.”

“Sacre bleu. Why would you tell the bloodsucker that I was captured?” Levet demanded in a horrified voice.

“It was not as if I had a choice. He followed me to the docks.”

“That is no excuse for revealing my very private business. I thought our trust was sacred.”

“Do you wish to be rescued or not, Levet?”

“Oui, but I do not desire to be made the source of mockery throughout London.”

Juliet thrust aside her annoyance, reminding herself that the tiny gargoyle was inordinately sensitive when it came to his manly reputation.

“I can promise you that Victor will tell no one you were captured by the Jinn,” she soothed.

There was a moment of startled silence. “Since when do you speak for the vampires, ma belle?” Levet at last demanded.

“Just be patient. I am coming for you,” she said, in no mood to endure her friend’s outrage when he discovered her recent mating.

Levet detested vampires.

“Please hurry,” he said, then without warning his scream of pain echoed through Juliet’s mind.

“Levet?” She grasped her head, her ears ringing. “Levet?”

“That bastard just destroyed my wing,” Levet panted, clearly in considerable agony. “When I get free I am going to turn him into a pile of steaming fairy dung. No . . . wait. Let us be reasonable—”

There was another scream and with an unpleasant wrench the sensation of the gargoyle was abruptly gone from her mind.

“Levet?”

She was distracted as the door to the lair was shoved open with enough force to make it snap off the heavy iron hinges, revealing Victor with his eyes glowing and his fangs fully extended.

“What has happened?” he growled. “I felt your distress.”

Juliet shivered, caught between a terrified awe at Victor’s power and a smug pleasure at the knowledge he would battle through the fires of hell to protect her.

“Levet,” she said, forced to halt and clear her throat. “We have to find him.”

Not surprisingly, Victor’s brows snapped together at the mention of the gargoyle.

“I should have known the ridiculous creature would be troubling you the moment the sun set.”

“He has been hurt.”

He planted his fists on his hips, the long caped coat doing little to disguise the various swords and daggers strapped to his lean body. With his hair pulled back to reveal the elegant beauty of his pale face and the lethal shimmer in the silver eyes, he appeared to be an ancient god come to earth.

“I do not care.”

She lifted a warning brow. “Victor.”

His jaw tightened, but with a muttered curse he turned to lead her down a narrow corridor to a door hidden by a cleverly woven enchantment.

“The carriage is waiting for us.”

Ignoring his cold disapproval, Juliet smiled wryly and followed him through the narrow tunnels that crisscrossed beneath the vast estate. Despite their intense connection, they were both strong-willed individuals who were destined to quarrel on occasion. And while she might not have much experience with being a mate, she did know that Victor’s natural arrogance would overwhelm a woman who did not have a stiff backbone.

“Good,” she said. “I need to return to Justin’s house before we go to the docks.”

“Why?”

“Because there is an amulet that might be helpful to us.”

He turned into another tunnel, this one with a flight of stairs at the end.

“What is its power?”

“It is capable of absorbing our scent.”

He paused at the base of the stairs, glancing over his shoulder in puzzlement.

“Forgive my ignorance, but how would that be helpful?”

She shrugged. “It can be divided and left in several tunnels, ensuring our scents are in many places instead of just one.”

The silver eyes flashed in appreciation. “Clever.”

“We shall see.” She grimaced. “First I must find the means to take the amulet without alerting Justin. It is one of his more valuable possessions.”

He turned to smoothly climb the carved stairs, pushing open the trapdoor at the top.

“You have no need to fear Hawthorne.”

Juliet gritted her teeth as she hurried to catch up with her aggravating mate, not surprised when she stepped directly into the stables. Vampires delighted in being able to travel from place to place without fear of sunlight.

“Victor?”

He inspected the sleek black carriage that was already attached to a pair of restless black steeds.

“Yes, little one?”

“You are feeling remarkably smug,” she accused. “What have you done to Justin?”

He turned to meet her frown, casually leaning against the back of the carriage.

“Hawthorne arrived at the front door demanding to see you.”

She shook her head, not surprised by Justin’s brazen stupidity. Indeed, she had expected him to arrive hours ago. Not out of any love for her, but out of sheer greed. And, of course, a petty refusal to allow Victor to steal what he considered to be his personal property.

“Is he . . .”

“Dead? No, but he was foolish enough to threaten Uriel with a nasty spell.” A cruel smile touched his lips. “My servant decided the intruder was in need of a lesson in manners.”

A chill inched down her spine. “I do not think I want to know.”

“He will sur vive.” With a sudden motion, Victor straightened and opened the door to the carriage. “Which is more than he deserves.”

Rolling her eyes, Juliet climbed into the carriage, waiting until Victor was settled at her side before offering her opinion on overly arrogant men.

“I am not certain who are more annoying, vampires or mages.”

He flashed a smile that would have been a great deal more reassuring if it had not revealed his massive fangs.

“You shall have an eternity to decide, my love.”

She settled back in the soft leather of the seat as she watched several vampires appear from the shadows, one climbing on the carriage to urge the horses into motion while the others ran silently at their side. It would be a waste of breath to continue the argument. Besides, Justin no doubt deserved a bit of punishment for being idiotic enough to enter a vampire’s lair uninvited.

Leaving the estate, the vampires once again disappeared, no doubt headed directly for the docks while the carriage turned toward Mayfair. Their pace slowed as the streets became flooded with vehicles rushing from one glittering society event to another. Juliet smiled as their frantic gaiety filled the night breeze with the sound of laughter, for once not feeling the least pang of envy.

She at last had what she had always desired.

A home with a man she loved beyond all reason.

They halted just long enough for Juliet to dash into Justin’s townhouse and retrieve the amulet she had discovered during their travels through Spain. Then, returning to the carriage, she used the short time during the drive to the docks to activate the amulet with her and Victor’s scents before splitting it into several small pieces and handing half of them to Victor to spread through the tunnels.

All too soon they had reached the docks, and not giving herself the opportunity to consider just how insane it was to deliberately enter the lair of a Jinn, she shoved open the door and climbed out of the carriage.

In the blink of an eye, Victor was standing in front of her, his expression somber as he wrapped his arms around her in a protective motion.

“Juliet.”

She tilted back her head to meet the fierce emotions smoldering in his silver eyes.

“Must we repeat the same arguments yet again?” she asked softly.

“If you are harmed it will destroy me, little one.”

Her heart melted at the stark simplicity of his words. Lifting her hand, she pressed her palm against the cool skin of his cheek.

“I promise to take the greatest care.”

“You free the gargoyle and leave the docks. Do you understand?”

“Very well, but if you do not return to me—”

He bent down to cover her lips in an achingly sweet kiss. “I have sworn to be at your side for all eternity. I love you, Juliet.”

With a last kiss, he was turning and disappearing with a speed her eyes could not follow.

“I love you, Marquis DeRosa,” she breathed before reluctantly making her own way to the nearby warehouse.

With none of Victor’s talent for tracking his prey, she was forced to retrace her path from last eve and simply hope she stumbled across Levet. Not the best plan, but the only one she possessed.

Entering the warehouse, she crossed to the gaping hole in the floor and lightly dropped to the cavern beneath. Then, moving to the various openings that led to tunnels, she scattered the tiny pieces of the amulet before heading down the nearest passageway.

Her heart was thundering in her chest and her palms were sweating, but she took pride in the realization that the stench of human fear that had been prevalent hours before was beginning to fade. They had at least managed to save a number of prisoners.

She bypassed the tunnel where they had battled the Jinn, shivering at the memory. Victor had sensed Levet nearby. . . .

Juliet abruptly paused, tilting back her head. She might not possess Victor’s vampire senses, but she was certain she could catch the faintest scent of gargoyle.

Hoping that she was on the track of Levet and not some other gargoyle, Juliet squeezed through a narrow opening, banging her head on the low ceiling as she struggled to follow the scent. Good Lord, another inch on her backside and she would never fit.

Her hands were scratched and her clothing was ripped in several places by the time she managed to reach the end of the tunnel, but her heart gave a leap at the sight of the entrance carved into the stone wall.

Bending low, she wiggled through the opening, cursing as she sacrificed several strands of hair and a small part of her scalp to a low-hanging rock. But at last she was in a cavern large enough for her to stand upright and even to drag in a deep breath.

Better yet, there was a tiny gargoyle only a few steps away, hung to the wall with silver manacles.

With a muttered prayer of thanks, Juliet rushed to tug on the cuffs. Her witch blood gave her immunity to the silver, while her imp blood gave her enough strength to loosen the metal and allow Levet to squirm free.

“At last,” the gargoyle muttered with a distinct lack of gratitude. “I thought you had decided to leave me to rot in this godforsaken cave.”

Juliet futilely tried to knock the dirt from her pants. “It is a notion with growing appeal. Are you hurt?”

“Of course I am hurt.” Levet turned, wiggling his one remaining gossamer wing. “Can you not see I am missing a wing?”

She grimaced. “Are you able to walk on your own?”

Levet sniffed. “Gargoyles are renowned for their ability to overcome pain and perform heroic feats that stun and amaze the demon world.”

“Yes, well, the only heroic feat I desire is getting out of here.” She shivered. “As swiftly as possible.”

“That is my specialty.”

Expecting Levet to leave the same way she had entered, Juliet frowned as the gargoyle instead crawled between two large boulders and disappeared from sight.

With a shake of her head, Juliet bent downward, discovering a small tunnel.

“What are you doing?”

“Following the night.”

“But . . .”

“Trust me.”

Condemning the cramped tunnels and annoying gargoyles to the netherworld, Juliet crawled through the small space. Once she returned to Victor’s lair, she intended to spend hours soaking in a hot bath.

At last reaching a connecting tunnel, Juliet straightened to find Levet waiting with an impatient expression.

“This way,” he urged, waddling with surprising speed through the darkness.

“You are certain?” she demanded, only to sigh in resignation as he continued on without so much as a backward glance. Following in his wake, she ruefully reminded herself that she had willingly chosen to rescue the aggravating gargoyle, even if at the moment she longed to give him a good shake. “You have not yet explained how you were captured by the Jinn.”

“He”—Levet halted to clear his throat—“caught me off guard.”

“Hmmm. You are hiding something from me.”

He hunched his shoulders, refusing to turn as he doggedly continued down the tunnel.

“It was not my fault.”

“What was not your fault?”

“I thought there was a nest of pixies, so I decided to perform a bit of magic to impress them.”

“Oh, Lord,” Juliet muttered. She was familiar enough with Levet’s dubious magic to presume that it had been nothing less than a disaster. “What happened?”

Levet paused, then turned down a side tunnel, his tail twitching behind him.

“There might have been the smallest of explosions.”

Juliet frowned. Although she suspected that Levet’s notion of a small explosion was a good deal more spectacular than her own, she knew there must be more to his tale than he was revealing.

“Did you wound the Jinn?”

“No, but a part of the tunnels were exposed.”

“And?”

“And it happened to be the part where the Jinn had stored his treasure.”

“And?”

Levet impatiently waved his stubby arms. “And I might have taken something he considered of value,” he grudgingly admitted.

Ah. They at last were coming to the truth of the matter.

“Then why do you not simply return it?”

He turned into yet another tunnel. “I lost it trying to escape.”

Juliet’s stomach clenched with dread. She knew very little about the Jinn, but she did know a great deal about demons in general and there was not one species that did not consider the theft of its treasure a suitable reason to maim, torture, and kill.

“Maybe we should hurry,” she suggested.

“My thoughts precisely,” Levet agreed, his remaining wing fluttering and his tiny legs churning.

They rushed through the darkness in silence, both acutely aware of the heavy sense of dread that was beginning to crawl through the air. The Jinn was near.

Too near.

Intent on keeping pace with the gargoyle, Juliet nearly tumbled over the top of him when he came to an abrupt halt.

“Mon Dieu. I smell it.”

Juliet regained her balance and glared at her companion. “What is it?”

“Continue north, ma belle. There is an opening less than a mile away.”

“Levet?”

She watched in disbelief as the miniature demon scrambled up the side of the wall, pushing his small body through a crack that hardly appeared large enough for a bat.

Well.

She did not expect Levet to grovel at her feet with gratitude at her heroic rescue, but to actually abandon her?

She had thought they were friends.

Thoroughly vexed by the unexpected betrayal, Juliet stomped down the tunnel, dangerously distracted by her flare of anger.

Not that being on guard would have prevented the wall of the passageway from suddenly exploding inward as a body was thrown through it. Or her scream of fear as she recognized her mate lying in a pool of blood at her feet.

Falling to her knees, she reached to brush the raven hair from Victor’s face, her heart contracting at the deep gash that marred the ivory skin of his forehead.

“Victor?”

His lashes slowly lifted to reveal remarkably clear silver eyes, his wounds already healing. She shook her head. Only a vampire could be shoved through four feet of pure rock and appear barely worse for the wear.

“I thought I told you to rescue the gargoyle and leave,” he growled, flowing to his feet.

She straightened, glancing toward the gaping hole in the wall. “And I thought you intended to rid us of the Jinn.”

There was a cloud of foreboding, then the booming voice of the Jinn echoed through the tunnel.

“Where is the gargoyle?”

Victor stepped in front of her as the Jinn slammed his way through the wall, the air crackling with electricity.

“If you have any other tricks, little one, now would be an appropriate moment to reveal them,” Victor rasped, pulling a large sword from the scabbard on his hip.

“What of your warriors?”

“Dead or wounded.”

Shaking off the clinging dust, the Jinn pointed a finger directly at Juliet, his eyes glowing with an eerie light and his hair floating as if caught on a breeze.

“Give me the gargoyle,” he roared.

Drowning in the potent presence of the Jinn, Juliet was caught off guard when Levet abruptly appeared on a rock above the Jinn’s head, his expression smug.

“I am here, you putrid saddlebag of rotting fungus,” Levet taunted, holding up his hand to reveal a wooden box ornately decorated with gold and precious jewels, including a ruby the size of Juliet’s fist. “And look what I discovered.”

Wondering if her friend had taken complete leave of his senses, Juliet shook her head.

“What the devil is that?”

Victor stiffened with a tension that Juliet did not need to be a mate to sense.

“The Jinn’s tiglia. It holds his anchor to this realm. Without it he will be forced to return to his own world,” he whispered softly.

The demon’s power surged through the tunnel, making the earth shake and the air so thick it was nearly impossible to breathe.

“Give that to me.”

Without warning, Levet launched the box over the head of the Jinn, directly at Juliet.

“Catch.”

Too stunned to think clearly, Juliet snatched the box from the air, her heart nearly halting at the malevolent magic that slammed into her.

Victor instinctively swept an arm around her, keeping her upright even as his wary gaze remained on the Jinn, who was already turning his fury toward Juliet.

“Can you destroy it?” he demanded.

Juliet’s first instinct was to deny the necessary skill for such a task. After all, she had never been properly trained in magic. How could she possibly destroy such a powerful object? And in truth, she simply wanted to drop the vile thing and run as far away as possible. The mere touch of it seemed to taint her.

But, drawing on the bond with her powerful mate, she steadied her nerves and forced herself to actually study the box with her innate talent.

The magic was unfamiliar, but she ignored the complex weave and instead concentrated on the odd tentacles she could sense flowing from the box to the demon. It was almost as if the very essence of the Jinn was in the box while the physical body was allowed to move around the world.

So what if she severed the connection?

She sucked in a deep breath, lifting her head to meet Victor’s steady gaze.

“I will need time.”

His smile was filled with a savage determination. “I can give you that.”

With a growl that made the hairs on her nape rise, Victor launched himself at the Jinn, the sword in his hand a blur of silver as he attacked. At the same moment, Levet jumped off the rock, directly onto the beast’s head.

Momentarily paralyzed, Juliet watched in horror as Victor ignored the massive blows from the Jinn, striking the demon with enough force to halt his desperate attempt to reach his tiglia. She had never witnessed a battle between two such mighty foes. It was . . . terrifyingly beautiful.

It was only when Levet sent a fireball over her head that she came to her senses.

“Sacre bleu, Juliet, you must do something.”

Juliet shook her head in sharp self-disgust, turning her rattled attention to the box she held in her hands.

She made no effort to destroy the actual tiglia. Such magic was beyond her skill. She doubted there was a witch in all of England who could perform such a spell. Instead she studied the tentacles that floated toward the Jinn like the strands of a web.

They were magical, but they did not draw their strength from the box or the demon. Instead she could feel the steady pull from their surroundings. The air. The earth. The water of the nearby river.

It was no wonder the Jinn could control lightning and earthquakes.

He was a creature of nature.

“Little one, you must hurry,” Victor rasped, the chill of his power making her shiver.

“Do you think I am not trying?” she gritted, keeping her attention on the tentacles as she summoned her mother’s magic.

She did not bother with a circle. She was not attempting to cast a spell, but rather to destroy an existing power. Ironically, it was a task that was easier for a half-breed than a full witch.

Needing a tangible means to focus her vision, she jerked off her loose shirt and wrapped it around the box, at the same time imagining she was smothering the tentacles. If they could not draw on the powers around them, they would die. And with them, hopefully the connection to the Jinn.

In the distance she could hear the sound of the vicious battle, smell the fresh blood spilling around her, feel the promise of death in the air, but she refused to be distracted. Not even when the Jinn’s roar of agony sent a shower of stones falling on her head.

The end was close.

She could feel it.

Trembling from the effort of holding her vision in place, Juliet fell to her knees, her stomach heaving at the scent of burning flesh that suddenly filled the tunnel.

She had to persevere . . . she had to . . .

“Juliet.”

Wearily lifting her head, she watched as Victor lunged toward her, abruptly covering her with his much heavier body. It was not until the ceiling collapsed, however, that she realized the Jinn was now no more than a smoking pile of charred flesh and they were about to be buried alive.

Not precisely the honeymoon she had been hoping for.

One week later

Seated at the small table he had situated before the fire in his lair, Victor sipped his aged brandy and watched Juliet absently nibble a piece of marzipan candy.

A frown touched his brow. She looked delectable, of course. Wearing an emerald satin nightgown that perfectly matched her eyes, and her fiery curls left loose to spill over her shoulders, she was the perfect image of Eve.

Feminine temptation at its very best.

But it was her obvious lack of hunger that caused a familiar stab of alarm to clench his heart.

“Shall I have the chef replaced, my love?” he demanded, his tone revealing he would happily go in search of a superior chef without hesitation.

“Good Lord, no. This food is heavenly.” Juliet dropped the candy on the tray as she regarded him with astonishment. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

He waved a hand toward the table that was laden with lobster in butter, braised ham, creamed potatoes, steamed asparagus, and fresh pears from the hothouse.

“You have not eaten more than a few bites.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Because I am still stuffed from the enormous meal you served when I first awoke. Are you attempting to fatten me like a Christmas goose?”

“You need food to regain your strength.”

Leaning forward, she offered a slow, wicked smile that sent a predictable flare of hunger blazing through him. Juliet had only to be near for him to be hard and aching to be buried deep inside her heat.

“I would say that I effectively proved that I have fully regained my strength,” she husked. “Or have you so easily forgotten?”

He reached to grasp her slender fingers, his gaze searing over her beautiful face.

“I will never forget a moment of our time together.”

“Me either,” she breathed, holding his gaze as she deliberately allowed him to sense her stirring arousal.

Over the past days they had rarely left the lair as they gloried in the explosive passion between them. Now he savored her ready response even as he glanced around the candlelit chamber, for the first time noting the hint of shabbiness.

“We shall need a larger bed,” he abruptly decided.

“It seems just the perfect size to me,” she murmured. “Besides, it is very old. You must have owned it for centuries.”

He shrugged. “I have no sentimental attachment to the furnishings. In truth, I prefer they be disposed of so you can choose what pleases you. We can begin tonight if you are feeling strong enough.”

Hoping to please his mate, Victor was disappointed when she pulled her fingers from his grasp and studied him with a wary expression.

“Victor, are you . . . perfectly well?”

“Why would I not be well?”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “Since we defeated the Jinn you have hovered and fluttered about as if I were as fragile as Venice glass. For God’s sake, you even allowed Levet to visit when I said I wanted to see him.”

He shuddered at the hideous memory. “Do not remind me.”

“Is there something you are not telling me?” Rising to her feet, she circled the table and settled her hands on his shoulders, covered by his brocade robe. “Did my spell to break the Jinn’s connection to this world do something horrible to me? Am I dying?”

He surged to his feet, shocked by her question. “No. You are perfect, Juliet.”

She tilted back her head to meet his narrowed gaze. “Then why are you behaving so oddly?”

With a grimace he accepted there was nothing to do but confess the truth. No matter how it might expose his vulnerable heart.

“I want you to be pleased with me and with this lair,” he confessed, his voice raw with need. “I want you to feel as if this is your home.”

Her eyes darkened with an unwavering love that instantly soothed his fears.

“Victor, this lair is merely a place where we are currently residing.” She pressed a hand to his chest, a smile of satisfaction curving her lips. “My home is here . . . in your heart. And nothing, absolutely nothing, could please me more.”

With a smooth motion, he swept her off her feet, headed for their bed. The cold emptiness that had claimed his soul centuries ago was melting beneath the tender heat of her gaze.

“You will never leave me?”

“I am yours, Marquis DeRosa,” she promised, “until the end of time.”

He tightened his arms around her. “Until the end of time and beyond.”

Immortal Dreams

KAITLIN O’RILEY

Chapter One

London, England
Fall, 1870

Grace opened her eyes with a strangled gasp, staring blankly into the murky darkness surrounding her. Fear gripped her entire body and she lay motionless for some minutes before realization dawned. Sweaty and shaking, she sat up in bed, wiping the tears that had spilled down her cheeks as her wild heart rate slowly returned to a more normal pace. With a trembling hand she lit the lamp on her bedside table, allowing the warm glow to comfort her, and sighed heavily.

The dreams. Another of those haunting dreams had awakened her.

Now that her bedroom was lit, she instinctively glanced at the small ormolu clock resting on the fireplace mantel, not that she needed to look. She knew exactly what time it was. As expected, the elegant hands indicated a quarter past five o’clock in the morning. She always awakened from these strange dreams close to dawn.

Knowing she would not fall back to sleep now, she rose from her four-poster bed and padded across the room to the large window. Lately she had been compelled to look out her window after one of those dreams, but she did not know why. Except she felt the answers to her questions lay somewhere beyond these walls. She pulled back the pretty rose toile curtains that reached to the polished wood floor.

The backyard of her London townhouse was shrouded in dark shadows, but she knew the grass was immaculately trimmed and the rose bushes and flower garden carefully tended. Her eyes scanned the lawn and moved upward above the trees. The last of the night stars were fading as soft fingers of light caressed the early morning sky. The world always seemed desolate and lonely to her at this hour, when the city was not yet awake and all was hushed and still. A sense of expectancy clung to her as she searched through the dimness, looking for a sign of movement. A sign of anything. She held her breath in anticipation. The eerie predawn light still held shadows but she could distinguish nothing out of the ordinary.

“Where is he?” she whispered impatiently to herself.

The question startled her, not only because she had said it aloud but also because of what it meant. She shook herself at her odd query, for she did not know whom she was looking for, but she could not get over the feeling that she was waiting for someone. A man. A certain man. The same man who haunted her strange recurring dreams. Who was he? She was quite positive she did not know anyone remotely like him. In her dreams she loved him. Even when she was married she had not loved Henry with the same passion with which she loved the stranger in her dreams. This love was magical, intense, and wildly passionate.

Afterward the dreams always left her in a melancholy mood, and this one in particular had been more vivid and detailed than usual, and filled her with a sense of anguish and sorrow.

She had had the dreams for as long as she could remember, all her life, although they had occurred with more frequency in the past year. While they always left her with an overwhelming sense of loss and sadness, she could not deny the indescribable joy and deep love she experienced within the dreams. Nor the aching loneliness she felt when she awoke and faced her real life.

Grace shivered and dropped the rose toile curtain back into place. Moving back to her bed, she gathered her soft robe around her and donned her slippers. It was too early to ring for a servant, but she desperately wanted the warmth of the fireplace, for the first days of autumn chilled the air.

Grace walked to her elegant writing desk, unlocked a small drawer, and retrieved a familiar book, indulging in the memory of her dream for just a few more moments. She curled up on the overstuffed rose chintz armchair with her journal. Flipping through the pages, she noted that her last entry was dated less than a week earlier. The dreams were becoming more frequent, more intense. It was after Henry died that she first began recording in a journal the recollections of the strange dreams that had haunted her life. Never had she spoken to a soul about these dreams, not even to her husband.

For these dreams were special and quite unlike ordinary dreams. She had often tried to find words to describe them and could only come up with “lifelike.” These dreams were not flights of fancy, nor the vague processing of the daily events. These dreams did not fade as the day wore on. They did not become wisps of memory or flashing impressions of feelings as her other, more ordinary dreams did.

These dreams of him were lasting and vivid, as real as if the events happened while she was awake and living them in reality. In truth it was as if she were visiting another person’s life during another era, yet somehow they were about her.

She had begun transcribing her dreams to keep track of them and over the years she had discovered that she lived another life when she slept. She could not shake the suspicion that it had been her life, if such a thing were possible. For the details were too intimate, too private, and too intense to belong to anyone but her.

Last night’s dream in particular.

She had been naked with him in this dream last night again. Her cheeks growing warm, Grace closed her eyes, remembering the deliciously sensuous and passionate nature of the dream.

In the dreams she called him Phillip. He was tall with black, wavy hair, very fair skin, and deep dark brown eyes. His face was beautifully sculpted, his handsomeness almost startling in its perfection. He possessed a seductive voice, smooth and cultured. And he loved her. Or at least he loved the woman she was in the dreams. He called her by a strange name. Gráinne. His love for her was evident in every word he whispered to her, in the way he caressed her cheek, in the way he gazed adoringly at her. In the way he kissed her lips. Oh, the way he kissed her! The emotion and intensity between them was overpowering, all-consuming.

Never in her own life had Grace experienced anything like it.

Henry had kissed her, of course. Yet Henry’s kisses never left her feeling the way she felt after Phillip kissed her.

A sharp rap on the bedroom door startled her, causing her to drop her journal on the floor. Before Grace could rise from her chair, the door opened and Mary Sutton stormed in.

“What in God’s name are you doing up at this hour?” her sharp voice snapped.

“I . . . I couldn’t sleep,” Grace began to explain to her mother-in-law, her heartbeat increasing. With a furtive glance at her dream journal lying on the floor, she frantically wished she had had a chance to tuck her journal behind her before Mary entered.

With eyes like a hawk, Mary spied the journal and snatched it up. “What is this?”

Grace’s cheeks flushed red and a sense of panic welled within her. She was always very careful to keep the journal well hidden. She would surely die of mortification if Mary read her journal now, knowing she would never be able to explain to Mary’s satisfaction any of what was written within its pages. A tall, wide-girthed woman with steelgray hair and permanent frown lines around her thin lips, Mary Sutton carried herself as a queen and expected others to treat her as such.

“It’s nothing important. Just some thoughts.” Grace held out her hand. “Sometimes it helps me to sleep if I write down the thoughts in my head first.”

“Your thoughts!” Mary ignored Grace’s obvious request for the return of the book. With a disapproving frown, she thumbed through the handwritten pages. “Of course you can’t sleep. How could anybody sleep when they are awake composing such drivel instead of in bed where they are supposed to be? Dream journal indeed!” She scoffed and flung the book back at Grace, who fumbled to catch it.

Grace breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that Mary could not read without her spectacles, so she could not see what Grace had written. She held the book close to her chest.

“God will be judging you on what you do, and I don’t believe anything you’ve written in that book would be deemed as godly.”

Grace remained silent. No, she doubted anything she had written was godly, but it was heavenly. She would not argue that point with her mother-in-law. She and Mary had always had differing views on God, and Mary’s overzealous religious leanings had only become more intense since her son, Henry, had died.

“Honestly, Grace, I pray for your soul every day, but I worry that not even that is helping you,” Mary admonished sharply, pulling the ties that secured her robe tighter over the girth of her stomach. She gave her a pointed look. “Well, have you decided to accept Lord Grayson’s offer?”

Lord Grayson’s offer! Grace’s stomach clenched and she stared mutely at Mary.

She had completely forgotten Reginald Marks’s proposal to her last night! She’d been so consumed with her dream she had not given it another thought. After years of proper mourning and wearing black for Henry, Grace was finally socializing again. In the past months she had begun to attend balls, supper parties, and musicales. Last night Reginald Marks, Earl of Grayson, had made an offer of marriage to her. He was a wealthy widower with a grown son, and was a nice enough man. She had thanked Lord Grayson for his honor, declared herself overwhelmed, and begged for some time to think it over. Lord Grayson had not been discouraged by her hesitation and readily agreed to give her as much time as she needed to consider his offer of marriage.

Because Mary had been so instrumental in bringing this prospect to her, Grace could not summarily dismiss the man, as was her first impulse. She did not love Lord Grayson nor did she wish to marry him, but then again, she did not wish to marry anyone. After her husband’s tragic death she did not believe she could love anyone again.

But then, love was not necessary for marriage. That she already knew.

But could she marry the Earl of Grayson? He was kind and gentle with her. He would take good care of her. Perhaps she would have a child this time. That would be lovely and was the main source of her regrets with Henry Sutton. She had always longed for a baby of her own.

She could do worse than the Earl of Grayson. Reginald Marks owned a great deal of property and was well respected in society. Although he was older than Grace by at least twenty years, judging from the amount of white taking over his brown hair, he was not unappealing. The promise of leaving Mary Sutton’s home was also something to consider. Living with her mother-in-law had become more intolerable each year, as she had grown more intrusive and domineering in her ways.

With a mixture of fear and loathing, Grace stared at the large woman looming in front of her. Mary’s blatant look of scorn and condescension was the usual expression she wore. Grace’s relationship with Mary had been one of mutual dislike from the start, because Mary had not wanted her only son to marry Grace. When Henry died five years before, the only buffer between them had been removed and each year the friction between the two women only increased.

“Don’t be a little idiot, Grace. I’ve worked tirelessly to cultivate this relationship for you with Lord Grayson, in spite of your efforts to deter him. You might not get another offer this good. You’re thirty years old now and you are beginning to show your age. You’ve turned down every other offer you’ve received, but you would be a fool to refuse Lord Grayson.”

It suddenly occurred to Grace that Mary was as eager to be rid of her as she was to be rid of Mary. She grinned at the irony. Yes, Grace would accept Reginald Marks’s offer of marriage, if only to escape this woman.

Mary eyed her suspiciously. “You look like the cat that ate the canary, Grace. I don’t like that smirk on your face. It’s quite rude and disrespectful to me. Stop it this instant.”

Grace ceased smiling, her eyes downcast.

“Did that smile mean you’ve finally come to your senses and have decided to be thankful for this opportunity the good Lord has generously bestowed upon you, however undeserving you may be?”

Grace merely nodded.

“Speak up, girl!” Mary commanded. “You will accept his offer this evening, will you not?”

She glared at Mary, thinking how wonderful it would be to finally be free of this woman’s daily presence. “Yes, Mother, I shall accept Lord Grayson’s offer.”

Mary sniffed. “It’s about time. Not since you married my Henry have I seen you make a good decision.”

Grace said nothing. Henry was a sensitive subject between them, for she knew Mary blamed her for his death. And for the fact that she did not have a grandchild.

“Now that you are awake, you might as well get dressed and we shall begin prayers. Then you may help me sort through the linens to see which must be mended and pressed. Dolly made a terrible mess of that. But what did I expect, asking her to do something that required some actual thought?” Mary said, not waiting for Grace to respond. “Oh, we must call on Lady Dennis later today, so make sure you wear your dark blue dress. We shall leave for the Rutherfords’ ball at eight o’clock sharp, for Lord Grayson will accompany us. You can tell him when he arrives that you have agreed to be his wife. Now you had better get dressed.”

With that proclamation, Mary left the room. Grace stared at the door and released a breath, relieved to be free of her mother-in-law.

You have agreed to be Lord Grayson’s wife. Grace hadn’t told him yet. But she supposed she would.

A pang of regret filled her as again she thought of him. The man in her dreams. Phillip. Oh, if only she could feel a love like that in her real life.

It seemed, however, that a love like that was not in her destiny. For if it was, surely it would have happened by now.

Chapter Two

“Congratulations on your engagement, Mrs. Sutton!”

It was all Grace heard that evening while she stood in the crowded and overheated ballroom of Lady Rutherford’s London townhouse. Grace wished she could simply slip away from it all. She had smiled falsely at everyone and was exhausted from the strain of pretending to be happy as well as spending the entire afternoon in Mary’s company.

“Thank you very much,” she managed to utter in wooden response.

She had danced and waltzed obligingly with her new fiancé, who beamed at her with delight and pride at her acceptance.

“We are going to be very happy together,” Lord Grayson said as he escorted her from the dance floor, his hand possessively on her arm.

Grace stared at the whiteness of his hair, the lines around his blue eyes, and the tightness of his mouth. Somehow she did not think she would be happy with him, but she was quite certain that he would not make her as miserable as Mary Sutton did. She would bet money on that if she could. Her life would definitely be easier with Reginald Marks. He was a nice enough gentleman and she even liked him.

“Would you please excuse me?” she whispered softly, indicating subtly that she needed to visit the ladies’ retiring rooms.

Lord Grayson nodded in understanding. “Of course. I shall eagerly await your return.”

Grace made her way through the festive crowd and managed to step outside for a much-needed breath of air. The cool fall evening revived her sagging spirits and she stood outside until the chill finally forced her to rejoin the party. She made a quick visit to the retiring room so she could honestly say she had been there. She studied herself in the looking glass, smoothing her auburn hair and adjusting her bottle-green silk gown. Her cheeks looked flushed and her blue eyes seemed overly bright, but she could not bring herself to smile.

She exited the retiring room and wandered along the hallway of the Rutherfords’ townhouse. Lingering, she strolled along another empty corridor and admired the gilt-framed paintings illuminated by beeswax candles in wrought-iron sconces.

She did not wish to return to Lord Grayson’s and Mary Sutton’s side just yet. Something drew her to this secluded area. A need to be alone? Perhaps, but she could not shake the feeling she was searching for something. Longing for something. She felt restless and out of sorts and not at all like her usual calm self. Last night’s dream would not leave her in peace. It had haunted her all day. The sensual nature of it, the wild passion, filled her with an overwhelming desire for something she could not have. Her legs trembled as she moved slowly along the hallway.

Stopping before a portrait of some medieval-looking Rutherford ancestor, she sighed, pressing her hands together tightly. She wished . . . She wished she could live the life in her dreams.

“Good evening,” a deep male voice stated from behind her.

The candles flickered and the hair on the back of Grace’s neck stood on end. Her entire body began to tingle as the strangest sensation crept over her skin. Her mouth went dry. Slowly she turned around to see who had spoken to her, even though she knew instinctively who it would be. Her heart stopped at the sight of an extremely handsome man, dressed in black. His eyes. His intense eyes looked as if they could see right through her, see into her very soul. She suddenly felt as if she were stark naked in front of him.

It was him. Him. The man from her dreams. Phillip. The man she loved in the dreams that haunted her. The man she had kissed with a fierce passion in her dreams only last night. The image was still so vivid in her mind; she was mortified to face him.

For a long moment Grace could not breathe. She could not move. She could only stare at him in helpless fascination.

“Hello, Grace.” He stood before her, his dark eyes penetrating hers. “Gráinne.”

How did he know her name? And the name he called her in her dreams?

Her eyes fluttered with rapid movements. The world began to tilt and spin violently around her and then in an instant went completely black.

When Grace opened her eyes again, the man of her dreams was cradling her in his strong arms, while one hand gently caressed her cheek. Her heart pounded wildly as she glanced up at him. She still could not catch her breath. However, she could breathe well enough to notice how nice he smelled. Clean and spicy, but a spice she was unfamiliar with.

“I didn’t anticipate that you might faint when you saw me, but I should have.” He gave her a smile, warm and slightly suggestive. He had the straightest and whitest teeth she had ever seen. They were perfect. “It was lucky I caught you in time,” he said, “or you might have hit your head on the marble floor. And we couldn’t have that happen now, could we?”

She may as well have hit her head on the floor, for nothing made sense to her at all. She blinked helplessly at him, feeling as if she were wrapped in thick layers of cotton wool.

“Who are you?” she murmured low, noting how naturally he held her. As if she belonged in his arms. As if he were quite familiar with her. A surge of hot desire shot through her veins, surprising her with its intensity.

He stroked her arms with long, soothing motions. “You know who I am.” His words were clear and calm.

The touch of his warm hands on her bare skin caused her to tremble. What did he mean? How could she know who he was when he was just a figment of her imagination? The man in her dreams was not real. Not a real person at all. And even if he were, how could he possibly know about her dreams?

She shook her head with a slow deliberateness. She wanted to say she had never seen him before, but that was not true. “I do not know you.”

He smiled again and there was a hint of laughter in his dark eyes. “Yes, you do. I am Radcliffe.”

The name meant nothing to her. Yet she could not deny the familiarity about him, how comfortable and at home she felt in his muscular arms. The soothing and rich timbre of his voice. The firm, possessive feel of his hands upon her. The look of warmth in his eyes. It was all eerily familiar. As if he had held her this way only last night.

And he had. In her dreams.

It was impossible. Impossible.

Suddenly a rush of panic welled within her and she had to get away. “Please . . . Please, let go of me,” she pleaded as she struggled to release herself from his magnetic hold.

Without hesitation he set her free, a look of understanding on his handsome face. “Ah, my lovely Grace, do not be afraid of me.”

Wobbling on her feet, she backed away from him, even though she longed to be in his arms once again. She cried, “How do you know my name?”

“Because, Grace, I know you.” He paused and eyed her carefully. “I have always known you and I have waited a very, very long time for you.”

She gasped at his words, which were tinged with a surprising sense of sadness. How could he know her? How could he have been waiting for her? She had not told him her name. The man was clearly insane. A sudden chill shuddered through her body. What was he thinking, saying these things to her? He was a complete stranger. And yet, he wasn’t.

“I must . . . I have to go now. . . .” She turned her back, suppressing a shiver, and began to walk on unsteady legs down the corridor to return to the ballroom.

He did not follow her, as she feared he would. She risked a glance back to be sure, but he remained standing there, his dark eyes fixed on her. As she hurried away, she heard him say, “You will not marry Grayson. He is not meant for you, Grace.”

She practically flew to the ballroom, the richness of his voice haunting her. He is not meant for you, Grace. Then who was? She suppressed the urge to scream.

“Where have you been?” Mary Sutton snapped when Grace finally reached her side at the seating area near the ballroom. “You have been gone entirely too long. And look at you! You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I . . . I went outside for some air,” Grace murmured mindlessly, oddly comforted by the normalcy of her conversation with Mary. “I must have caught a chill.”

“Well, that was quite foolish of you.”

Lord Grayson eyed her kindly and, in a most thoughtful gesture, wrapped her black wool shawl around her shoulders. “You forgot to take your wrap with you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, giving him a grateful smile. She eagerly pulled the warm garment tighter around herself. She still shivered.

“Would you care for some hot tea?” Lord Grayson asked with caring solicitation.

“Thank you, yes. That would be quite nice,” she said, taking her seat along the wall. As she watched her new fiancé go off in search of her tea, it occurred to Grace that it would be lovely to have a man to watch over her again.

Mary sat beside her and whispered none too softly, “Lady Rutherford’s daughter, Victoria, has the most deplorable manner. Look at her there, wearing that indecently low-cut gown and dancing with that no-account scoundrel, Lord Mayhew. She will cause her own ruin with her wildness one of these days. Her parents have been too lenient with that girl and now it is inevitable that she will come to a bad end, mark my words. And Lord Mayhew, well, everyone knows about him. He’s gambled away his country estate! That is what comes of sin and wickedness. Why Lady Rutherford allowed that man into her home is beyond my understanding. . . .”

Grace ignored Mary’s tirade of verbally attacking each of her friends and their offspring.

She could think of nothing but the strange meeting she had just had with the enigmatic Lord Radcliffe. Had she simply imagined it? Now, as she sat amidst the light, the noise, and the liveliness of the ballroom, it did seem as if her extraordinary encounter in the dimly lit hallway had not happened.

How had the man who had dominated her dreams for years suddenly appeared before her in flesh and blood?

A terrible thought occurred to her. Had she fallen asleep in the ladies’ retiring room and dreamed the entire event? Were her dreams taking over more than her nights? Was that possible?

Her heart raced at the likelihood. Had she merely been dreaming again? Yet he had seemed so real. He had held her in his arms and she had felt him, right here in this very house. Yet he had always been real in all her dreams throughout the years.

What was happening to her?

Confounded by her situation, she pressed her fingernails sharply into her palms, making tight fists. Either she had a problem of dozing off in public places or the object of her dreams had suddenly materialized in front of her. Both explanations were more than a little disturbing.

“. . . in that tacky dress! She looks like an overripe tomato. Oh, and I heard it directly from Mrs. Fairwood that Lord Granger is thinking of marrying Helen Thatcher! Can you believe that he would stoop to . . .”

Grace continued to ignore her mother-in-law, a skill she had become quite adept at over the years, focusing instead on the need to find a reasonable explanation.

How on earth could she account for what had just happened to her?

Lord Grayson returned then and handed her a white china teacup filled with hot black tea. As she thanked him, Grace hoped he had put some sugar in it. He smiled at her, satisfied that he had pleased her, and took his seat on the other side of her. Grateful for the steaming liquid to calm her racing nerves, with shaking hands she brought the cup to her lips.

Before she could take a single sip, that strange tingling sensation crept along the back of her neck again and she froze in place. The gaslights in the ballroom dimmed. He was here.

On pure instinct Grace slowly glanced up and, just as she knew she would, she met the eyes of the man who haunted her dreams. He stood casually against a long marble column across the room, staring at her. His dark eyes were focused on her alone. In his impeccable black suit and crisp white shirt, his form was tall and imposing. Every other man at the ball paled in comparison to his muscular and broad build. He was utterly handsome. He looked as if he were carved from marble, so perfect were his features. The tea forgotten, she lowered her hands with the china cup to her lap.

Could no one see him but she? Could no one see him staring at her?

Mesmerized, Grace could not look away from him. The intense longing and profound sadness he conveyed with his dark eyes stunned her. He seemed to speak to her through his eyes and she wanted to hear every word.

I know, he said to her without making a single sound. I know everything.

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest and she longed to answer him. She wanted to say, I know that you know, but other words sprang unbidden from the depths of her soul. I love you. She could not stop them from pouring from her, while the very outrageousness of her thoughts frightened her. His eyes widened slightly and he smiled at her with such deep understanding, her heart turned over in her chest. He knew her.

Suddenly people obscured her line of vision and she could no longer see him. Her view momentarily hidden by a dancing couple, Grace craned her neck to find him again. But he was gone and she felt his absence like a physical blow. Her breath, which she had not realized that she was holding, escaped her lungs with a long whoosh.

“Who was that gentleman?” Mary’s voice demanded shrilly in her ear.

“Which—which gentleman?” Grace asked, nervousness settling in. Then he was real! Mary had seen him. He was not a figment of her imagination!

“That black-haired man across the room. He was staring at you quite intently not a moment ago.”

“I . . . I noticed him as well, but I have not the faintest notion of who he is.” Grace murmured. He was real. He was real. He was real. He had been staring at her. He had! Relief washed through her at the confirmation that she had not completely lost her mind.

“Well. I don’t believe I care for the way he was looking at you, Grace,” Mary intoned with clear disapproval. “I hope you gave him a properly dismissive glance.”

Grace nodded absently, her eyes frantically scanning the room for him, wondering where he had gone. Her heart thumped an erratic rhythm in her chest.

“Lord Grayson.” Mary leaned across Grace’s lap toward Reginald Marks and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Lord Grayson, do you know who that gentleman is? That one. The tall one in the corner over there conversing with Lord Mayhew.”

Immediately Grace’s eyes locked on to him as he stood listening with polite interest to Lord Mayhew, a young man with blond hair. As if he knew Grace was staring at him, he lifted his gaze slowly to meet hers. Again she felt his presence physically. A surge of passion washed through every fiber of her body. Her cheeks warmed under his intense regard.

“Oh, that is Lord Radcliffe,” Lord Grayson explained to Mary. “I believe he is a guest of Lord Rutherford from the country, if I am not mistaken. I was introduced to him earlier. Seems to be a nice enough fellow, although I do not know much about him or his family.”

Grace watched him. Lord Radcliffe. He shook the other man’s hand. He gave her one long glance, as if to say, I will see you again. And then he was gone.

She suddenly felt as if her world had turned upside down.

“Aren’t you going to drink your tea?” Lord Grayson asked.

She blinked at him, realizing she still held the cup in her hands. “Oh, yes, of course.”

As she finally sipped the tea, she puzzled to make sense of it all. He was real! An actual person. She had not dreamed their meeting in the hallway. But how did he know who she was? He could have learned her name from anyone at the ball. And he could easily have found out that she was engaged to Lord Grayson, for their engagement was the talk of the evening. It was merely a coincidence that this gentleman resembled the man in her dreams, and she had only imagined that he called her Gráinne and imagined the words he was saying with his eyes. Everything that had happened between them could be explained quite logically. Yes. It could. Quite logically.

Logic, however, played no part in the indescribable, hauntingly familiar feelings that swept over her in his presence. She knew this man from somewhere....

Later that evening Lord Grayson escorted them home in his carriage. Once inside the townhouse, Mary pointedly excused herself and Grace found herself sitting alone with her new fiancé in the main parlor. A blaze crackled in the fireplace, warming the room.

“I know I said this to you earlier, but I am quite pleased that you have agreed to become my wife,” he said pleasantly, standing before the white marbletopped mantel.

“I am happy that you are pleased,” Grace responded from her seat upon the large damask sofa. And she was happy to please him, when she actually thought about it. He was a kind man and she knew he would be good to her. Her life with him would be peaceful. If she had a child with him, that would make her happy, although he already had an heir. His grown son attended Oxford.

Lord Grayson moved from the mantel and sat beside her, his face beaming.

“I hope we shall be very happy together, Grace,” he said, taking her hand in his. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “Have you given any thought to when?”

“When?” Grace echoed, her heart still reeling with all that had happened this evening with Lord Radcliffe.

“When you would like to get married, sweet girl!” He chuckled at her obtuseness and continued lightly. “I was thinking perhaps just before Christmas. We could do something quite small, just our families and a few close friends. There’s no need for a grand wedding, since this is not the first for either of us.”

Christmas? Why, that was only a month away! She could be out of Mary’s house in a month. “Yes . . . Of course.”

He smiled at her, obviously delighted with her acquiescence. “I knew you would be reasonable about this. But with some women, you never know for certain. They set such a store by weddings and the like.”

He leaned in to kiss her. Grace instinctively recoiled from him.

Good heavens! Grace was no innocent maiden. She had been a wife and knew what her duties entailed. And she was not averse to kissing Lord Grayson. He was attractive and smelled clean. But somehow, after seeing Lord Radcliffe this evening, it seemed wrong to have Lord Grayson kiss her. She dared a glance at his pale blue eyes. He looked embarrassed. She knew she had insulted him.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, feeling contrite. “You surprised me.”

“No, no. Forgive my impulsiveness.” He shook his head and squeezed her hand again. “I admit I am a bit carried away with you. I should have asked your permission first.”

She smiled at him.

“May I?”

She nodded. This time she did not pull away from him, but sat perfectly still while he placed a light kiss upon her lips. It was not unpleasant. He simply did not inspire within her the same passion she felt merely thinking of Phillip.

Satisfied, he released her hand and rose from the sofa. “I shall begin first thing tomorrow to make arrangements for our wedding.”

Relieved that he had not pressured her for more, she sighed. “That sounds lovely.”

“Good night, Grace.”

“Good night, Lord Grayson.”

He flashed her an indulgent grin. “You must call me Reginald now, my darling.”

“I shall . . . Reginald.”

With that, he left the house and Grace continued to sit there for some time, staring at the golden flames flickering in the fireplace.

She was now officially engaged to be married to Reginald Marks.

How different this wedding would be compared to her first wedding to Henry Sutton ten years ago. She had been in love and excited to marry her handsome young beau, filled with hope and excitement for the future. But about her upcoming marriage to Lord Grayson she felt nothing but . . . indifference.

Her heart was filled with an indescribable longing for something, someone she dared not name.

Chapter Three

“Gráinne! Wait for me!”

She laughed at him, her red hair blowing wildly about her face, her horse racing across the green fields. Let Phillip catch her if he could! She urged her horse to go faster, leaning into him and whispering in his ear. Midnight leapt gracefully across a small stream, landing with ease upon thick grass on the other side. Excited that she had such a lead over Phillip, who usually bested her in everything, she smiled in triumph. He would not catch her now.

She guided Midnight up the small hill in eagerness, imagining Phillip straining to reach her. Savoring the victory that she knew was within her grasp, she moved farther up the hill. Just as she crested the top, Gráinne screamed in frustration.

Phillip sat astride his large gray stallion, waiting patiently for her at the top of the hill. Not even out of breath. He smiled winningly, his handsome face a picture of absolute superiority.

Furious beyond words, she flung her riding crop at him. It missed his head and sailed to the ground behind him.

He laughed loudly as he leapt from his horse and was at her side, reaching up to pull her with ease from her saddle.

“How could you possibly arrive before me?” she cried with undisguised irritation.

“Because, my darling, I have powers beyond your wildest dreams.” He grinned at her, revealing his perfectly white teeth. He wrapped his muscular arms around her shoulders, pressing her to his broad chest.

Gráinne’s anger melted at his very touch, as it always did. He had that effect upon her senses. She turned her face toward his and he leaned in and kissed her, as she had wanted him to.

“Why don’t you ever let me win?” she pouted when his lips left hers.

“Because you are so beautiful when you are angry.” He laughed again. “And you kiss better too.”

She shoved at his chest, but it was like shoving a brick wall. He pulled her tighter against him, bringing his mouth down over hers in a rough and hungry kiss. Gráinne felt that familiar rush of desire pour through her veins and kissed him back with an eagerness that matched his own. His lighthearted laughter and her petulant anger dissipated instantly, replaced by the heated passion that they could barely conceal when around others. Their mouths devoured each other, lips and tongues meeting in a frantic and erotic dance.

His hands moved along her spine, to her neck, splaying through her long, silky red curls. He cupped her face with his hands and stopped kissing her long enough to whisper, “I love you more than is humanly possible, Gráinne.”

“I love you even more,” she murmured before he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the small, whitewashed cottage with the thatched roof. It was to this refuge they were racing. It was to this little cottage, tucked away in the woods, where they met in secret, where her parents could not find her. Her parents not only disapproved of Phillip, they outright detested him. They had forbidden Gráinne to see him, but that had not stopped her. For she had fallen madly in love with the handsome stranger, who had arrived mysteriously one day in their small Irish village a few months earlier. Everyone was wary of Phillip Stuart and disliked his blatant wealth and polished manner. Gráinne’s father was a landowner and her family was the wealthiest in the county, so Phillip’s money meant nothing to Gráinne. It was everything else about him that fascinated her.

He was so different from any of the other men she knew. The worldly and sophisticated way in which he spoke, the air of mystery that clung to him, and the devilmay-care attitude had lured her restless spirit from the moment she laid eyes on him. She knew she was meant for him. And he knew it too.

Once they were inside the cottage, Gráinne could not remove her clothes fast enough. Phillip obliged by hastily undoing the rows of buttons down the back of her gown. The soft kisses he pressed upon the sensitive skin along her spine sent shivers of delight through her entire body. Oh, there were people in town who would tear her to shreds if they knew what she had been doing in this little cottage with Phillip, but she did not care. Their scornful looks were worth even one of his kisses. Her parents were ready to send her to a convent, but Gráinne only laughed at them. She was marrying Phillip and that was that. She loved him and wanted to be with him. Forever.

She pressed her naked body against his and they fell into the large feather bed together. His body was perfect and she ran her hands across his chest, moving over the smooth, taut planes. His warm skin was like velvet. Her mouth found his and that was all that mattered. Being here in his arms was all that mattered to her anymore. All except one thing.

“When?” she begged him. “Please tell me when.”

He moved over her, settling himself firmly between her legs. She sighed.

“Soon,” he breathed into her ear, her body shivering in response. “Very, very soon, my love.”

She arched her hips hard against him, her heart hammering. “You said you wanted to marry me. My parents are becoming more and more anxious about us. What are we waiting for?”

His dark eyes bored into her, desire flaming within their depths. “I want to marry you, Gráinne. I want it with all my heart. I just don’t know if you truly wish to marry someone like me.”

Her fingers clawed into the smooth skin of his back, pulling his weight down upon her. She couldn’t get close enough to him. She wanted him with a desperate need. “I do. I do want to be your wife. I want to be with you always.”

“You have no idea what that means.”

“Then tell me.” She began to cry, even though she tried to fight it. The hot tears sprang unbidden. It had come to this argument last time they were together and he had not given her a satisfactory answer. “Tell me . . .”

“Oh, Gráinne,” he whispered, a tortured expression on his face. He pressed kisses to the tears that spilled from her eyes. “I wish I could. I want to give you everything. I want to give you the world and spend eternity with you.”

“I want that too!” she cried, through her sobs. Through her desire for him.

“The cost for that is too high.”

“No cost is too high to be with you, Phillip.”

She maneuvered herself beneath him, feeling the hardness of his body and wanting him with an urgency that terrified her. Thrilled her. He responded willingly, driving into her with a force that startled them both. She met him stroke for stroke. They moved with increased rhythm. Their bodies and eyes locked with each other.

“Make me what you are, Phillip, please. . . . Make me what you are.”

An anguished cry sprang from his lips as he lowered his head to her neck....

Grace awoke with a strangled gasp, her body soaked with sweat and her heart pounding. She could not think where she was. Her body throbbed with a familiar, aching need.

Another dream. Another quite intimate dream. About him.

Trembling, Grace sat up, her damp flannel nightgown clinging to her breasts. She covered her heated cheeks with her hands and breathed deeply, willing her heart to return to a more normal pace. Although she shook with the unfulfilled ache of desire, she fought the urge to cry.

The dreams were becoming more intense, more passionate and fraught with an impending sense of loss. There was some secret, some sort of mystery, to these dreams and Grace could not unravel it. Something did not make sense. Something she was not sure she wanted to know.

After a moment more she lit the lamp next to her bed. Again, the pretty ormolu clock read quarter past five. Following her usual pattern, she left the warmth of her bed, wrapped herself in her robe, and moved silently to the window, seeking she knew not what. With trepidation she drew back the rose toile curtain to peer out at the dark enshrouded garden.

Her eyes scanned the lawn, searching for him as she always did. Wondering why she did this after every dream, she stared intently, almost willing him to appear. The clock ticked. She waited and watched, standing perfectly still. A wild hope in her heart, she held her breath. And then, there he was, stepping from the shadows along the garden wall. He wore a black top hat and a long cape flowed behind him. He walked with an elegant grace, his tall form moving with purpose toward the house. Stopping just below her second-story window, he looked up at her.

Her fingers gripped the curtain tightly, almost tearing the fabric. They stared at each other in the dim morning light. She could make out his pale skin and perfect features, could see the edge of his black hair beneath his hat. He looked exactly the same as he had in her dreams. Exactly the same as he had when she met him in the hallway last night. The dark eyes in his handsome face bored into her and she fought the impulse to throw open the window and jump out. She knew with an instinctive certainty that he would catch her in his arms quite easily. As if he could read her thoughts, he held out his hand to her in invitation to do just that.

Then what? She asked him, but he did not answer. He merely raised a dark winged eyebrow.

Make me what you are. The words she had uttered to him in her dream flooded her consciousness, even though she had no idea what they meant. Make me what you are. What was the significance of that?

He was inviting her to be with him. Whatever that entailed, she knew that if she went to him now, her life would change irrevocably. What would happen if she ran off with him? The ensuing scandal would be beyond repair. In spite of the wave of desire and longing that overcame her at the sight of him, blind fear kept her rooted to the relative safety of her bedroom.

She could not go.

They continued to gaze wordlessly at each other until the pale glow of an overcast sunrise began to illuminate the sky. By taking a step backward, he suddenly broke the odd spell between them. He raised his hand and tipped his hat to her before he fled silently into the shadows.

As if he had disappeared before her very eyes, Grace gasped and pressed her fingers against the cool windowpane. If she pushed any harder she could shatter the glass. She stood motionless, staring at the place she had last seen him, hoping he would return to her.

It was all too much. The dream. His appearance just as she woke. Their wordless exchange. Finally she turned from the window, not knowing what she feared more. That she had imagined his presence outside her window. Or that she hadn’t.

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself to ward off the chill that crept through her bones and sank to her knees on the wooden floor.

Chapter Four

The young lady at the piano played beautifully, the haunting strains of Chopin’s “Nocturne in E-Flat Major” filling the room. Grateful not to be subjected to an off-key recital, Grace enjoyed the evening’s musicale at the Forsythes’ home more than she had enjoyed one in quite some time. This piano piece in particular affected her strangely. Lord Grayson sat to her right; however, Mary Sutton had remained at home, nursing one of her terrible headaches. Happy to be free of her mother-in-law’s negativity for the evening, Grace smiled warmly at Lord Grayson. He placed a possessive hand on her arm.

Comforted by his touch, Grace relaxed. She was glad to be with people. Glad to have real, living beings talk to her and touch her. These were not figments of her imagination. And she did not want the evening to end. She did not want to go to sleep and drown in another life in her dreams. It was all becoming too real, too frightening. She had almost jumped out of her bedroom window this morning. To what end?

No. It was good to be in the company of others, without Mary hovering over her, listening to the lovely strains of music and having Lord Grayson beside her. She gave him a shy glance and he grinned sweetly at her. It took so little to please him. All she had to do was give him a smile. Marriage to him would not be such a bad compromise after all.

When young Elizabeth Rutan finished playing her piece, everyone removed to the salon for refreshments. Grace allowed Lord Grayson to lead her to a small table, where he promised to bring her some cake. Grace sat with Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker, a couple she had been friendly with for a number of years, for she and Henry had married only a month after the Whitakers. The two couples had spent a great deal of time together before Henry died.

“It’s wonderful news that you and Lord Grayson are to be married,” Lucy Whitaker commented brightly. She was a pert blonde with an easy smile and an upturned nose. “Have you set a date yet?”

“Well, it is not definite, but we think we shall marry in a quiet ceremony before Christmas,” Grace explained. Lucy and her husband, Daniel, had been very supportive of her after Henry died. But not even they knew the true circumstances surrounding Henry’s death. Mary had made quite sure no one knew.

“We’re so happy for you, Grace,” Daniel said. “Reginald Marks is a good man.”

“Yes, I know,” she agreed. He was a good man who would take good care of her.

“Oh, Grace, I would like you to meet a friend of mine. Here he comes now,” Daniel began.

The hair on Grace’s neck stood on end and her stomach lurched. Even before she turned around she knew. He was here.

“Hello, Radcliffe! You remember my wife, Lucy, but I would like you to meet a very dear friend of ours,” Daniel said with warm enthusiasm. “Grace, this is Lord Radcliffe. Lord Radcliffe, may I present Mrs. Grace Sutton.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Sutton,” a rich and achingly familiar voice said as she lifted her gaze to lose herself in the dark pools of his eyes. The urge to reach out and touch him caused her to tremble. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he continued.

“Good evening,” Grace managed to whisper. Her pulse quickened and her cheeks flamed.

For years she had thought of him as a fantasy, as an unattainable vision or apparition in her life. Last night he had held her in his strong arms. Then he had made love to her in her dreams while she begged him to marry her. This morning he had appeared below her bedroom window, inviting her to leave with him. Now here he stood before her, as real as day. And familiar with her closest friends on top of it all!

“Lord Radcliffe just arrived from Ireland,” Daniel Whitaker went on. “He has an estate there near my cousin’s and he’s in town for the month.”

Grace’s heartbeat increased at the mention of Ireland, but she was not surprised. Not truly. Of course, he was from Ireland! In her dreams she and Phillip were in Ireland, riding horses along the misty seashore, rocky cliffs above them. She could see quite clearly the endless green fields dotted with limestone walls and the quaint little cottage where they met in secret, even though Grace had never been there. She’d never been more than a few hours from London in her life. But how could her dreams be so vivid and lifelike? And how could she have dreamed up someone like Lord Radcliffe? Something strange was happening to her.

Lord Grayson returned with dessert and Grace forced herself to look away from Lord Radcliffe’s mesmerizing gaze and focused on her lemon cake instead. But she could not swallow a single bite. Not with Lord Radcliffe’s possessive eyes on her. Nor could she follow the conversation going on around her. Words were spoken. Laughter ensued. Heads nodded. Yet Grace had no idea what anyone said and if they had spoken to her, there was no way she could answer. She kept her eyes down, for she dared not meet his with Lord Grayson beside her.

At some point, Lord Grayson put his hand on her shoulder and announced it was time that they took their leave. Grace finally glanced up from her untouched plate. As she expected, Radcliffe’s eyes were on her. She willed herself to look away.

“It’s time for me to go as well,” Lord Radcliffe said casually to Lord Grayson. “I shall walk out with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Lord Grayson said before saying goodnight to the Whitakers and leading Grace over to their hostess. They thanked Lady Forsythe for a lovely evening and made their way outside to await their carriage. Nervously, Grace pulled her merino wool wrap tighter around her shoulders at the cool air.

Lord Radcliffe stood waiting for his carriage to be brought around as well. His eyes never left Grace. She could feel his stare.

“Lord Grayson! Lord Grayson!” A young manservant wearing the Grayson livery came racing over to them. “May I speak to you a moment please, my lord?”

Surprised, Lord Grayson excused himself to step away to speak privately with the young man. Grace was left standing alone with Lord Radcliffe. She dared a glance at him. He smiled knowingly at her. A moment later his carriage pulled up.

“Lord Radcliffe,” Lord Grayson said in an urgent voice, “it seems there is a bit of a family emergency that I must attend to personally. Would you mind seeing Mrs. Sutton home safely for me?”

Radcliffe’s eyes flickered briefly to Grace. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Reginald, what is the matter? Can I be of any help?” Grace asked, filled with worry, and not just for her fiancé but for the idea of being alone in a carriage with the man of her dreams. Literally.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. I shall explain everything to you later,” he whispered in a tense voice. He patted her arm. “Please let Lord Radcliffe escort you home now. It would ease my mind greatly.”

Grace nodded her head, watching Lord Grayson hurry down the street with the manservant. Slowly she turned back and faced Lord Radcliffe. He held open the door to his gleaming black lacquered carriage and extended one hand to her.

Taking a deep breath, she took his hand and allowed him to help her into the luxurious carriage and settled on the seat facing forward. He followed quickly behind her, and his entire being seemed to fill the small space. She had expected him to sit across from her on the opposite seat, but he sat right beside her. She inched herself as far from him as she could, but still his thigh pressed against her leg. An unexpected heat flooded through her.

Grace took a deep breath, filled with the wonderfully clean and oddly spicy scent of him. He rapped on the roof and the driver set the carriage in motion. Easing back into his seat, he turned and smiled at her, revealing his straight white teeth. A sudden thought occurred to her.

“Did you plan this?” she asked with mounting suspicion and a sense of panic.

“How else could I get you alone with me, Grace?” He held up his hands in mock helplessness.

The confirmation of her suspicions did little to allay her nervousness. “What was this emergency Reginald had to attend to? Nothing serious, then?”

“It depends if you consider his son in a drunken stupor and losing his shirt at a card game serious or not.”

Grace pursed her lips. Somehow Lord Radcliffe had arranged for Reginald to learn of his son’s exploits. Reginald would be quite angry with his son but at least the boy was not permanently injured in any way. Perhaps it was better she did not know the details of Lord Radcliffe’s ruse. “Why did you do this?” she questioned with a shaky voice.

“You know why.” He placed his hand under her chin, tilting her face toward his. “Besides, I can hardly continue to skulk around your bedroom window before dawn, now can I?”

Her heart turned over in her chest as she gazed up at him, his dark eyes mesmerizing her. He had been outside her window this morning. She had not imagined it. She had not dreamt it. He was real and here with her now. He had her alone with him in a darkened carriage. She did not know what to think.

She whispered, “You are not taking me home, are you?”

“Do you want me to take you home?” His voice melted her.

In all honesty she did not want to go home. A part of her longed for this man to take her wherever he wanted and to do with her whatever he wished. Lost in his eyes, a heated desire washed through her, making her slightly dizzy. “I . . . I do not know what to do,” she murmured.

His voice was hoarse. “I do.”

Before she knew what was happening, he lowered his head, his mouth slanting over hers in a possessive and searing kiss. He continued to kiss her passionately, his tongue searing her own with its heat. Grace clung to him in a breathtaking frenzy. This was a dangerous kiss, a kiss that would lead to much more, and she was powerless to stop it. Never had Grace experienced a kiss such as this. At least not while she was awake.

He consumed her with his passion and she let him. His mouth moved over hers expertly, and she savored the exquisite taste of his lips, his tongue, his breath. The intoxicating scent of him enveloped her. His tongue plundered and ravaged her. His hands gripped her so tightly she thought she would faint. She didn’t want him to let go and held on to him desperately, for it was familiar and new and frightening and exciting all at once. And, oh so much better than her dreams, for this kiss was real! This kiss was happening now. To her. She was kissing him back just as passionately.

Suddenly he released her and Grace opened her eyes wide in surprise. His smile sent shivers to the tips of her toes. She should be outraged. She ought to slap him for kissing her in such a way. Instead, she felt ridiculously happy.

“Who are you?” she whispered through her kiss-swollen lips.

“I am Stuart Phillips, the Earl of Radcliffe.”

“Stuart Phillips?” The name jarred her senses. It was more than a coincidence. Phillip Stuart was his name, the man in her dreams.

“Yes.” Again he spoke in that calm, seductive voice.

“Who are you? How do you know me? Where did you come from? What are you doing here?”

“Why so many questions, Grace”—his eyes flickered over her—“when you already know the answers?”

“I . . . I have had . . . I have had dreams. About you.” The words came out before she could stop them.

“Have you now?”

She nodded. He seemed almost amused by her confession and she felt inordinately foolish. How could she possibly explain this to anyone, let alone the man about whom she dreamed? And after she had just allowed him to kiss her!

“Why are you here?” Her voice trembled.

“Ah, my love, have you not guessed?”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to guess. She wanted answers.

He took her hand in his. Very slowly, he began to remove her glove. With great care he inched the fabric away from each finger, until her fingers were bare. She shivered at the contact of her bare skin against his. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. He turned her hand over and kissed each finger. He continued to place soft, sensuous kisses all over her hand. The desire that pooled within her intensified with every kiss until she thought she would expire from the anticipation of what he would do next.

“I could not stay away from you any longer, Grace.”

“You barely even know me . . . ,” she breathed. He still held her hand in his, his thumb stroking her palm. She could not focus on anything but the feel of him caressing her hand.

“Ah, but you see, my love, I do know you.”

She held her breath. “How?”

“We have met before.”

“When? Where?” she whimpered, while her heart raced in her chest. Yet she knew what he would say.

“Ireland.”

“I have never been to Ireland. In fact, I have never set foot outside of England in my life.”

He looked at her intently and squeezed her hand. “Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s talk about the dreams you have.”

Her mouth went dry. It was so foolish. How could she possibly describe her dreams to him? Such passionate and intimate dreams. Her cheeks warmed at the memory of last night. She said nothing.

“I am in your dreams, am I not?”

Grace nodded, unable to speak.

“You call me Phillip in your dreams,” he stated as if it were quite ordinary.

Again she nodded her head. She held her breath.

“And in these dreams you and I are in Ireland, are we not?”

She stared at him with fear and wonder. How could he know such things?

“And I call you Gráinne.”

She gasped at the sound of her name. It was impossible. It was completely impossible for him to know that. Had he somehow gotten ahold of her dream journal? Had he paid a servant to read it and report to him? But for what reason? Nothing made sense.

She choked out the words. “You called me Gráinne last night in the hallway, didn’t you? I thought I imagined it.”

“I could not help but call you that. Do you know that in Irish the name Gráinne means Grace?”

No, she did not know that. It still did not explain how he knew about her dreams.

“We kiss in your dreams, don’t we, Grace? We do more than kiss.” His silky voice whispered in her ear. “It’s why you allowed me to kiss you just now.”

For a moment Grace thought she would faint, as she had when they first met in the hallway. Suddenly she found the words she needed. “How . . . How do you know such things?” she practically begged him. “How can you know my dreams?”

He cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him once again. “Because I have the same dreams, Grace.”

If he had suddenly sprouted wings and begun to fly she couldn’t have been more surprised. “No!” she cried. “Is such a thing even possible?” She reached up and touched his face, running her fingers along his strong jaw, his perfect aquiline nose.

“I have dreamed about you for more years than I care to give a number to, Grace. When I saw you at the ball, I could not believe my eyes.”

“But what does it mean? Why do we share the same dreams?”

“Because we have loved each other once before.”

She certainly loved this man in her dreams. And he loved her. She could not deny that fact. What he said made sense. “A long time ago?”

He nodded. “Another life.”

Nervous laughter bubbled within her, but she suppressed it. “Another life?” she questioned.

“Yes.” He stated it matter-of-factly, as if people discussed their past lives at the supper table on an ordinary basis. “You see the truth of what I am saying?”

No, she did not quite see and at this point she was not sure she wanted to see.

She whispered, “It cannot be.”

“Then how do I know about your dreams? How we hid from your parents by running off to the cottage? How do I know I made love to you, wanted to make you my wife?”

He knew! It defied all logic and sense of reason but he knew all her dreams.

With a sure movement, he leaned in and kissed her again. Grace thought she would explode from the fire he stoked within her. Good heavens! She could not help but kiss him back again. He felt too good, tasted too good. And she wanted him too much. She had been alone for five years. It had been five years since she had experienced a man’s touch on her body and she relished his hands on her now. Craved his hands on her naked skin.

They kissed and kissed and kissed, as the heat grew between them. Their tongues swirled together. His arms circled her waist and pulled her tighter against him. She did not protest but pressed herself against his broad chest, filled with a wanting too strong to resist. His hat fell from his head as she ran her fingers through his thick black hair. His hand followed the curve of her hip, up to her breast. He removed her wool wrap and began to undo the buttons of her gown.

Grace suddenly froze. She was kissing a stranger in his carriage when she was engaged to another man. It was wrong. Everything about this situation was wrong. In fact, it was terrifying. She pulled away from him, panting heavily. He still had his arms around her.

“Please . . . Take me home,” she murmured mindlessly.

“Gráinne.” His voice was filled with anguish. “Grace.”

“Please,” she begged. “Take me home now.”

“You belong to me.”

She stared at him, not knowing what to say. “I . . . I need to go home.”

“If that is what you wish.” He released her and opened the small window to give instructions to the driver. He turned back to her. “But we are far from finished, Grace.”

No, she did not doubt that. But at the moment it was all she could do to hold herself together. She needed to be alone. She needed to make sense of all of this.

“Where were you planning to take me tonight?” she suddenly asked.

“To my house.” He inclined his head. “You belong with me. In my bed.”

In spite of the blatant intent of his words, her body quivered at the prospect he presented. She had dreamed of being in this man’s bed in such intimate detail for so long, she almost felt he had the right to say such things to her now. To do such things to her. The temptation to allow him to do so was powerful. But rampant fear overwhelmed her. She busied herself by righting her appearance.

They rode in silence, while a thousand questions raced through her mind. All of which went unspoken and unanswered.

When the carriage came to a halt in front of her house, Lord Radcliffe opened the door and leapt to the ground. He turned and extended his arm to her. She allowed him to help her down. He followed her up the steps of the townhouse and stopped at the front door.

“Grace,” he whispered to her, taking both her hands in his, “I know you are overwhelmed by this and I will give you time. We have much more to say, more than I can explain to you in this short carriage ride. We will see each other again.”

His words brooked no argument. He clearly meant what he said. Part of her longed to jump back into the carriage with him right then and there. Part of her wanted to run inside and lock the door. “Yes, I know,” she murmured, accepting the inevitable.

“You must break your engagement with Grayson. The sooner the better.”

“What?”

“I cannot keep contriving to speak to you alone by getting rid of him. It only complicates our situation. You don’t belong with him, Grace.”

“I accepted his proposal only last night. I cannot just—”

The door opened and Mary Sutton stood before them. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth formed a tight frown. Grace groaned inwardly, as he dropped her hands.

“What in God’s name is going on out here?” she demanded, her eyes darting suspiciously between Lord Radcliffe and Grace.

Before Grace could answer, he did it for her. “Good evening, Mrs. Sutton. I don’t believe I have had the honor of meeting you before. I am Stuart Phillips, Lord Radcliffe. It seems there was some unexpected family matter that needed Lord Grayson’s immediate attention, and he asked me to see your daughter-in-law home safely.”

Mary was completely taken aback by his smooth manner. “I see,” she said through pursed lips. She was clearly not happy with the situation but could do nothing but scowl at the both of them. “Well, thank you, Lord Radcliffe. Now it’s time for Grace to come inside.”

“Yes, of course. It is rather late,” he said blithely, a charming smile lighting his face. “Good evening.”

Grace paused and said, “Thank you, Lord Radcliffe.” She tried to avoid his eyes but could not help but seek them out. He gave her a look so full of longing and desire that she almost gasped aloud. Only Mary’s tugging on her arm broke the spell as she stumbled through the entrance of the house. The door slammed shut behind her with a loud thud.

“Well, I have never witnessed such a spectacle in all my life and never hope to see the likes of that again!” Mary cried, placing her hands on her wide hips in indignation. “And to think I witnessed it with my sainted son’s widow!”

“I don’t know what you are making such a fuss about,” Grace declared. She turned to head up the stairs to her bedroom, longing to be alone.

Mary took hold of her arm once again and spun her around. Mary’s fingers dug into the flesh of Grace’s upper arm. “What is going on with you and that man? I demand to know.”

“Nothing is going on, Mother.” Grace stared at the woman she hated to call “mother.” “Lord Grayson asked him to take me home and Lord Radcliffe was kind enough to do so. I had no choice in the matter.”

“I am not blind, nor am I stupid, so do not think to pull the wool over my eyes, miss. I saw the way that Radcliffe man was ogling you last night. And here he is taking you alone in his carriage at night and whispering and holding hands with you on my front doorstep. There is a certain look about you now. It all adds up to wickedness and sin in my book.”

Everything added up to wickedness and sin in Mary’s book, which always left Grace wondering just what book Mary had been reading. But in this instance, she could not deny that Mary’s suspicions were well founded if not completely justified. Lord Radcliffe had been ogling her, had arranged to get her alone, had kissed her in his carriage, and made it clear he would be seeing more of her. The matter was fraught with all kinds of complications when she was engaged to another man. Filled with shame at her behavior, Grace had no defense except for the fact she had no idea what was happening to her and it all seemed quite beyond her control. She had not intended for any of it to happen.

“I shall ignore your comments and go to my room now,” Grace stated, pulling her arm free of Mary’s grasp. She made it as far as the first step.

“You had better stay away from that Radcliffe man, if you know what is good for you. He is nothing but trouble, mark my words. Lord Grayson has seen fit to make you his wife and does not deserve to be humiliated by the likes of you parading about with that wicked gentleman.”

Grace did not turn around. She straightened her spine and took another step.

“You may walk away from me now, but we will continue this discussion in the morning. I am telling you now that I absolutely forbid you to see that man again. Do you understand me, Grace?” Mary demanded, her voice like ice.

Without looking back at Mary, Grace nodded her head very slowly and continued to walk up the stairs.

Chapter Five

Gráinne paced impatiently within the small, cramped cabin of the ship. Where was he? He simply had to get to her before the ship sailed. He had to stop them from taking her away. How long would it take him to figure out where she was when he arrived at the cottage and found her gone? Her parents were determined to get her as far away from Phillip as they could.

Oh, such a scene they had had last night!

Somehow they had learned of her secret visits to the cottage with Phillip. Her mother had screamed at her and called her terrible, filthy names. Her father declared that she had shamed the family with her behavior. Gráinne had cried and begged them to simply let her marry Phillip. Her father refused, deciding to send her to a convent in France immediately.

Phillip had to get to the ship and free her before it sailed. If he did not, then Gráinne would escape at the first opportunity that presented itself in France, for there was nothing she could do now. Her father was taking no chances when he locked her in the windowless cabin.

A sudden scream escaped her when she felt the lurch and sway of the small ship as it left the dock. She could not even look out the window, for there wasn’t one, but she knew. They were leaving. And Phillip had not reached her in time.

“Oh, Phillip!” her heart cried. “Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t we marry sooner? They couldn’t send me to a convent if I were married to you! If you made me like you, I would not be in this position!” Great sobs wracked her body. She ached to be with him. He was her life. She needed him and now she did not know when she would see him again. She threw herself on the narrow bed and cried herself to sleep.

She awoke some time later when she was tossed to the floor by the wild rocking of the ship. The room was in complete darkness. Terrified, she could hardly stand because of the violent pitching of the ship. The cabin door burst open and she could tell from the dim light in the hallway that her father stood there.

“Gráinne!” he called frantically. “Are you there?”

“Papa?! What’s happening?” She reached for her father and he held tightly to her hand.

“There’s a storm. We’re taking on water. We must get above deck.”

Panic set in, for she glimpsed the abject fear on her father’s face. Quickly, she followed him out of the cabin. The ship rolled to one side and they were both flung against the wall. Icy-cold water rushed through the corridor as high as their waists. She and her father desperately fought their way against the surging sea, struggling to get above deck. Gráinne could barely move her legs and she was so terribly cold.

“Phillip!” No one could hear her cries above the din of the waves and the screams of the other passengers. Great sobs racked her body, but still she screamed for him. “Phillip! Phillip!”

Gráinne knew then she was going to die. Here in the cold, dark sea. Alone. Without him. If only Phillip had changed her. She had been so willing. She wanted to be with him at any price and was willing to pay it. If only he had listened to her, she would not be in this terrible situation. If only he had made her immortal then, she would not be dying now. . . . “Phillip!”

“Phillip! Phillip!”

Grace lurched up in her bed, gasping for air. Her frantic cries for Phillip had awakened her. Shivering uncontrollably with the bedclothes twisted around her legs, she could barely move. Filled with panic, she took deep breaths. She could still feel the icy water filling her lungs, but the air felt so good now. Air, she needed air.

Overcome with fear and sadness, tears sprang to her eyes and she sobbed in the darkness of her room. Sobbed for herself, sobbed for wanting to be with Phillip. The pain and loss were unbearable. Had she died in her dream? What was happening to her? Why was she having these torturous dreams? It had to stop. It had to. She simply could not endure any more.

She reached out and lit the lamp on her bedside table. Although she tried to resist the need, she could not help but look at the clock. Quarter past five. Grace shook her head. Why did she always wake at this time? What did any of it mean? She rose and straightened the bedclothes, which she had so entangled. Craving warmth, she reached for her thick robe. She folded her arms across her chest and she stood still, struggling against the magnetic force that pulled her to the window.

She could not keep doing this to herself. She would not go and look for him again. Perhaps once she was married to Reginald and no longer in this house, the dreams about Gráinne and Phillip would finally cease to torment her.

Perhaps if she spoke to Lord Radcliffe about it, she wouldn’t have the dreams anymore.

Last night he said he shared the same dreams. He knew details of those dreams that were impossible for anyone to know. Unless he had read her dream journal. She crossed the room to her desk and unlocked the small drawer that held the journal. The leather-bound volume was still in its place. She knew she would not be able to bring herself to write about the drowning she experienced in her most recent dream. She shivered at the memory.

There was no possible way Lord Radcliffe could be reading her journal.

Then how did he know? How had he called her Gráinne? Could it be possible for them to be dreaming the same dreams? Her head hurt from trying to sort it all out. She had asked herself all these questions before she finally fell asleep last night and had no answers then either. She locked her journal back in the drawer and returned the key to its secret hiding spot, inside the locket her father had given her, which she placed in her jewelry box.

She turned to stare at the window. Would he be there, as he was yesterday morning? What would she do if he was there? What would she do if he wasn’t? She longed desperately to see him. Needed to ask him countless questions. But she also feared the answers.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she made her way across the room and stood beside the window. With a shaking hand she pulled back the rose toile curtain. It had been raining during the night and the pane was spotted with droplets of water. Her eyes scanned the dark garden and her heart began to race.

And there he was, waiting for her beside the garden wall. His tall figure loomed above the shadows. His eyes sought hers through the misty predawn light and again, he held out his hand to her. Beckoning her to join him.

With a deliberate slowness, Grace nodded to him before letting the curtain fall back into place. Acting on pure instinct, she rushed silently about her room, dressing as quickly and warmly as she could. As he had said last night, he did not know when they would get a chance to be alone again. She needed to speak with him. She needed answers or she would lose her mind if the dreams continued. Maybe together they could make sense of what was happening to them.

Once she was dressed in her warmest gown, her wool pelisse and hat, and sturdy walking boots, she scribbled a quick note to Mary, explaining that she had gone for an early morning walk and would return soon. She raced to the window again. Lifting the curtain she could see that the shadows had begun to disappear as the sun rose behind a thick blanket of gray clouds and mist. Lord Radcliffe smiled when he saw her and she could not help but smile back at him. As fearful as she was, something drew her to him and she could not stay away. She nodded to let him know she was coming.

As she left her bedroom, she realized there would be hell to pay with Mary later if she discovered what she was doing. She had no choice but to see Lord Radcliffe. Tiptoeing silently along the corridor, she prayed Mary would not hear her leaving. Grace moved like a wraith through the quiet house. Sounds from the kitchen alerted her that the servants were up and readying the fires. She slipped into the parlor and out the side door unnoticed. The patio was slick with rain, which was beginning to fall again. The sky had lightened but the heavy mist shrouded the garden, as she made her way to where she had seen Lord Radcliffe standing.

His hand grabbed hers and pulled her to him. Without a word she followed him through the garden gate and into the narrow alleyway behind the townhouse. They scurried along the cobblestones to where his warm and waiting carriage stood at the end of the alley. He helped her up and was beside her in an instant as the driver urged the horses into motion.

Alone with him now, she suddenly realized how reckless her behavior was. Not a soul knew where she was. Even she didn’t know where she was going. She had just run off with a complete stranger! Slowly she faced him. When she looked in his eyes, she knew he was not a complete stranger at all.

“I did not know if you would come with me today,” he whispered.

She sensed how relieved he felt that she had come with him. “I did not think I would either.”

“Why did you change your mind?” He took her gloved hand in his.

“I need to know what is happening to me. To us. Can you tell me?” she asked.

“I can try.” He squeezed her hand. And oddly enough, this reassured her.

As the carriage made its way through the rainy London streets, she had no need to ask where they were going. She was not in any danger. She rested her head against the leather seat and closed her eyes with a sigh.

“You are even more beautiful than I remember, Grace.”

Her eyes flew open at the sound of his voice. She found him staring at her, his hand still holding hers. No one had ever called her beautiful before. She could pass as pretty perhaps, but not beautiful. Her cheeks warmed and her heart skipped a beat.

“What do you remember, then?” she asked him, full of wonder.

“Your hair is a softer red now, more of an auburn, and not the fiery red that Gráinne possessed. Your facial structure is similar to hers.” He lifted his other hand to caress her cheek. His touch sent a spark of desire through her. “Same translucent skin, same high cheekbones. But it’s your eyes that are so striking. You have the most incredible blue eyes, exactly the same shade as Gráinne’s. I recognized them the moment I saw you.”

Grace held her breath. If what he said was true, she had been this other person, this Irish girl Gráinne, in another life. She could almost believe it because it explained so much. It was what she had suspected all along and written about in her dream journal. She had been this other woman. But what worried her more than anything was Lord Radcliffe. He was exactly the same.

“But you have not changed,” she began slowly. Fear trickled up her spine. “You are still the same person, are you not?”

He said nothing. But he did not deny it. He stared at her, the dark pools of his eyes drawing her in. He leaned closer, as if to kiss her. His lips were so close.

She whispered, “You have not changed at all, yet I have. You look exactly the same. If we are dreaming of a past life, wouldn’t you have changed too? As I have?”

“You are right. I have not changed.” His sensuous lips hovered close to hers. She longed for him to kiss her.

She barely breathed. “Why?”

His mouth sought hers then, his lips searing hot. He possessed her mouth so completely that all thought, all desire to speak, was obliterated at his touch. Her tongue met his and she lost herself in his hot and hungry kiss. She brought her arms up around his shoulders, feeling the strength of his muscles through the material of his black cape.

She was lost to him then. There was no resistance, no regrets. Unlike last night, she was completely willing to follow him to the ends of the earth. What had changed? She did not know. She only knew she needed him. And wanted him with a desire she could not fight.

When the carriage stopped, he finally released her with great reluctance on both their parts. Very gently, he carried her from the carriage, through the pouring rain, and up the steps into his townhouse. If there were servants in his house, she did not see them. While clinging to him, she had brief impressions of a dark and elegant residence. He continued right up the main staircase and along a dimly lit hallway before opening the double doors of a grand bedroom.

The luxurious room was shrouded in shadows. The thick, burgundy velvet drapes hanging at the windows allowed not a ray of light into the room. A fire blazed in the hearth and a few candles flickered in sconces on the walls. It could have been midnight in his chamber and not dawn. In a smooth movement he placed her gently in the middle of a very large bed draped with more velvet curtains. She watched him remove his hat and cape.

He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. His black hair, pale skin, and dark brown eyes, his beautiful smile, his lush lips, his perfect teeth, his straight nose. It was all too much. He came to her side and divested her of her coat and hat as well. He bent over her feet and unlaced her black boots, tossing them to the floor. He looked as if he were about to devour her.

And she was going to let him.

Yes, she would have to face the wrath of Mary and the disappointment of Lord Grayson later. But for now . . . For now, she simply did not care. The questions, the dreams. Everything could wait until later. All that mattered was the two of them in this room, in this bed. For the first time in her life, Grace felt as if she were really alive.

She began to unfasten the buttons that lined the front of her green plaid gown, lifting her eyes to his as she did so. He watched her in fascination and a thrill went through her, knowing that she excited him. She stilled her trembling fingers and focused on shrugging out of her gown. When she was down to her corset and chemise, he slowly began to remove his white shirt, the rest of his clothes following quickly. They could not disrobe fast enough. In a matter of seconds they were both naked in his massive bed. He covered her body with his and she clung to him.

His kisses melted her as they rained down upon her. He kissed her face, her cheeks, her lips. He moved his head lower to her neck, breathing in deeply and stroking his hot tongue along the length of her throat. She shivered at his touch, aching for more. Inch by inch he made his way across her chest to her breasts, kissing and licking her sensitive nipples.

Combing her fingers through his thick head of hair, Grace pulled lightly. She wanted him so desperately and his slow, deliberate movements drove her mad as she burned with need for him.

He made love to her slowly, carefully, as if cherishing each and every second.

Afterward he wrapped his arms around her, pressing kisses into her hair. She breathed in the scent of him, content and secure.

“I love you, Grace.”

“I love you . . .” She paused and gave him a quizzical glance. “I don’t know what to call you.”

“Call me what’s in your heart.”

“Phillip. It’s how I think of you.”

His dark eyes locked on her. “You belong with me.”

“Yes.” She kissed him on the cheek. She belonged to Phillip and Phillip alone. She loved him and never wanted to be without him again. “Will you tell me now?”

He hesitated, his expression guarded. “I do not know where to begin.”

“You have the same dreams as I do?” she questioned.

“Not quite.”

“Then how can you possibly know what I have been dreaming?”

“Because I lived it with you.”

Grace blinked. “What do you mean?”

“They are not dreams for me. They are memories. Memories that have been tormenting me for over one hundred years. Beautiful, cherished memories of how much you and I loved each other.”

Incredulous, Grace could hardly get her mouth to form the word. “Memories?”

He continued as if she had not spoken. “We loved each other so much, Grace. I told you everything about me and you loved me anyway. I didn’t deserve you and could not believe that you could love . . . someone like me. But I lost you before we could marry, before I could make you mine.”

“I drowned, didn’t I?”

Pain wracked his features. Grace placed her hand against his cheek.

“Yes. Your parents tried to keep us apart. They were taking you to France to place you in a convent. Your ship sank in a terrible storm.”

“I know,” she whispered in awe. “I had that dream last night. I kept calling for you. . . .”

“I wished I had died when you died.”

Grace held her breath. “But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You kept on living.”

He nodded, not breaking his gaze with her.

“As you live now?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“How is that possible, Phillip?”

“I’ve waited and searched for you for a hundred years, Grace.”

“How is that possible, Phillip?” Her voice rose an octave as she repeated the question.

“I could only hope that I would find you again. That your soul would find a way back to me in another body. And that I would be able to find you when you did. I’ve lived a century in heartache and grief. Searching for you.”

“How. Is. That. Possible?” she asked quite deliberately. Fear began to grow within her. His words defied all logic, all reason. She could accept that she had lived another life before. On some level that made sense to her. But what Phillip was suggesting . . . How could he still be living and look exactly the same after one hundred years? It was impossible. Either he was stark raving mad or she was.

He grabbed her closer to him, pressing his fingers into the naked flesh of her arms. “Look at me.”

She blinked.

“Do you believe I love you?”

“Yes.” There was not a doubt in her mind that this man loved her.

“And you love me?”

“Yes, Phillip, I love you.” And she did love him. The power of her love for this man overwhelmed her. He had become the center of her world, her life. She would do anything for him.

“Then listen to me very carefully, for I am about to tell you something that may make you hate me.”

She shook her head. “I could never hate you.”

“This might change your mind.” The line of his mouth tightened and he looked disgusted with himself.

“Tell me.” A feeling of dread crept up her spine.

“Telling you what I am does not negate how I feel about you, Grace. Do not fear me, because I would never hurt you. Never. I promise you.”

The dream. In her dream. Make me what you are, Gráinne had begged him. Make me what you are. Good heavens, what was he? What was he that he could still be living over one hundred years and not have aged a day? What did Gráinne know that she did not? Her breath came in shallow gasps. “What are you?”

He grimaced and stared into her eyes, clearly dreading what he was about to say. “Vampire. I’m a vampire.”

Chapter Six

Phillip stared at her, watching her blink in confusion. Was she afraid? Did she loathe him for the beast that he was, as she lay naked in bed next to him after he had just made love to her? Now he had confessed that he was a monster.

“What does that mean?” she questioned.

“You have never heard of vampires?” he asked, incredulous.

She shook her head. “Should I have?”

He shrugged. “I just assumed you knew what they were. What I am.” Had she not read of them? Had her life with Mary Sutton kept her so sheltered?

“What is a vampire?” she asked, her face puzzled.

This was worse than if she already knew. Now he would have to explain. “A vampire is a monster.”

Grace smiled. “Be serious, Phillip.”

“I am serious.” He kissed her lips as he moved over her, covering her naked body with his once again. “I am a monster.”

She was an angel. A beautiful angel. Could an angel love a monster? She had before, when she was Gráinne. He could only hope.

Her delicate brows drew together in a charming way. “What kind of monster?”

“You have no idea what a vampire is?”

“No.” She shook her head, her long auburn hair spilling around her. “I have a vague idea of gothic stories but other than that, no. I do not, and Gráinne did not, see you as a monster. At least not in the dreams I had. That is why I am asking you to explain to me . . . Explain how you can have lived over one hundred years . . .”

He hated this part. “Because I am a vampire and vampires are immortal. I am over three hundred years old, Grace.”

She stared at him in disbelief and whispered, “If only you had made me immortal, I cried in my dream last night.”

“I will live forever,” he confessed.

She took a deep breath. “Go on.”

“Vampires are creatures of the night. We feed on human blood and we live forever.”

“Human blood?” she echoed woodenly.

Phillip cringed, not wanting to see the revulsion in her eyes. “Yes. We bite humans and drink their blood and they die. It is how we survive.” He looked at her steadily. “I was made a vampire when I was thirty years old. I was bitten by a female vampire in 1570. I have been a vampire ever since.”

That day so long ago haunted him as if it were yesterday. Lady Anna Barlow had seduced him with her beauty and cursed him by making him a monster. And he had loathed every day of his endless existence until Gráinne came into his life.

Grace said, “It sounds like a strange sort of twisted fairy tale.”

He shook his head. “The happily ever after is rather unlikely.”

Her beautiful blue eyes met his and he saw the fear in them. “Do you want my blood?”

He wanted so much more than her blood. He wanted her love, her companionship, and her constant presence. He wanted her with him always, for he had lived too long without her. Every ounce of his self-control was centered on not harming her. “You are not in any danger. I’ve long since learned to control my . . . baser urges. I would never hurt you, Grace. I love you too much.”

He sensed her unease and only wished to calm her. He leaned in and kissed her silky cheek.

Grace began to tremble nervously. “I don’t know what to think.”

He held her tightly to calm her. “If nothing else, Grace, know that I love you more than life itself and I will never let you go again.”

“You are not going to kill me for my blood?” she asked, a strange light in her blue eyes.

“I have not searched for you for a century only to kill you now.”

She touched her hand to his face, her fingers caressing his full lips. He stilled, allowing her to explore him, wanting her to feel utterly safe. He could not help but kiss her fingertips. Spreading his lips slightly, he allowed her to feel the smoothness of his perfect, white teeth. He opened his mouth and she sank her finger deeper inside, until she ran against a very long, very sharp tooth along his upper jaw and found a matching one on the other side. Two very sharp teeth used for ripping flesh, like a wolf. Yes, now she could understand why he would call himself a monster. He expected her to recoil from him in disgust, but she did not. Her blue eyes glittered with passion.

He bit down on her finger, locking it in place, and their eyes met. He could feel her arousal as she began to breathe heavily. He loosened his hold on her finger, sucking gently on it instead. Grace slowly pulled it from his mouth and arched her hips against him.

With a low growl he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. He kissed her roughly as desire for her washed over him in a tidal wave. He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her and it thrilled him. He entered her in one swift stroke.

It was only the beginning.

They made love over and over in his massive bed until she was exhausted and he had to let her rest. She slept peacefully in his arms and he watched her, breathing deeply of her sweet scent.

She finally opened her eyes and yawned sleepily. She smiled at him and murmured, “I’m hungry.”

“You’ve worked up an appetite.” He admired the color that suffused her soft cheeks. “I’ll ring for the servants and have some food sent up for you.”

“What about you?”

He laughed ruefully.

She smiled at him. “Why are you laughing?”

He shook his head. “Because I don’t eat food.”

“You feed only on human blood?” she asked, her eyes huge.

“Yes.”

“But not mine?”

His face became very serious. “You think I am jesting?”

“No . . . You have two very sharp teeth.... Yet . . . it all seems . . . I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted.

“Well, believe me, for I am telling you the truth.”

Grace sat up in bed, pulling the sheet over her luscious breasts. “Prove it, Phillip. You keep telling me you are this kind of monster, this vampire. I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you are a monster. Prove it to me.”

Dread filled his heart at her words. “Do not ask me to do that.”

“How can I not? You claim to be over three hundred years old, a creature that lives on human blood. An immortal being, who loved me in another lifetime. You say these things and just expect me to believe you with no proof? I am not a fool, Phillip.”

His eyes narrowed. “I never said you were.”

“Then do not treat me as such,” she said coldly.

He pulled her to him. She wrapped herself around him and he held her close. He loved the feel of her in his arms.

“Vampires have some special gifts, special strengths.”

“Such as?” she prompted.

“Some vampires can read people’s thoughts. Some have extraordinary hearing and can hear even the faintest of noises. Some are incredibly strong or can see things miles away.”

She cupped his face in her hands. “And you, Phillip? What special gift do you have?”

“Well, for one, I can read people’s dreams.”

Grace froze.

“That is how I found you, Grace.”

“How?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve waited for you for years. I’ve traveled all over the world searching for you. Somehow, I sensed your dreams about Gráinne. They brought me closer and closer to you. As you dreamed about your other life and learned how much I loved you, the dreams called to me. Very faintly at first. About ten years ago I was in China and I realized I needed to come to England.”

“That was when I first started to record my dreams,” she confessed, “just before I married Henry. I wrote them down in a special journal.”

“Writing them down made them stronger, making it easier for me to find you. Most people forget their dreams upon awakening,” he explained. “When you write them down, you help preserve their memory, making them stronger. Every time you had a dream about your life, Gráinne’s life, and recorded it, you left a clear path for me to find you. Your dreams were so vivid, so clear, I was reliving our life together with you. But once you saw me, you stopped writing about them, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Grace admitted, spellbound by his confession. “But how could you know that?”

“Because I know you, Grace. I know everything about you, because I can see all of your dreams, not just your dreams about Gráinne. I know you were devastated by your parents’ death when you were sixteen. I know you thought you loved Henry and were happy enough in your marriage with him. I know you hate your overbearing mother-in-law and I can’t say I blame you. I know you want to marry Lord Grayson simply to escape her. And you are correct in your assumptions of him. He does love you and would be good to you.” He paused before looking at her knowingly. “And I know you blame yourself for Henry’s suicide, but you shouldn’t.”

Grace’s eyes grew round and she pulled away from him. “There is no way you could know those things.”

He drew her back into his arms, placing a kiss on her lips. “I’ve seen your dreams, Grace. All of them. I know how you were the one to find Henry’s body that morning, hanging from the rafters in the attic. I know about the nightmares. I know how Mary took care of everything. How she and the doctor had agreed to keep the suicide a secret to avoid a scandal and the official story that was told was that Henry died of an unexpected heart ailment. That doctor passed away the following year, so that left only you and Mary guarding the truth. And you have never spoken to a soul about losing Henry in such a way.”

Tears spilled from her blue eyes as he spoke and he was wrenched with guilt for bringing up the topic of her deceased husband. He whispered, “His death was his choice, Grace, and you are not to blame.”

She hid her face in his chest, the warmth from her tears heating his skin. “You can’t know these things about me,” she sobbed.

“But I do,” he answered softly in her ear. “And I know you love me.”

“How? How do you know these things?”

“You asked me for proof, Grace. I just gave it to you. I know these things about you because I can see your dreams. While you were sleeping a little while ago, you were so exhausted and so peaceful, you didn’t dream at all.”

She said nothing.

“The reason I can know these things is that I am a vampire.”

Grace slowly nodded her head. “And I knew about this, Gráinne knew.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted you to make me what you are. . . .” Her voice trailed off as the significance of those words occurred to her.

“Yes, you wanted me to make you a vampire all those years ago. I had misgivings and did not want to turn you into the monster I was—”

“You are not a monster,” she protested.

He hated what he was and not once in three hundred years had he gotten used to it. He cupped her sweet face in his hands. “Yes, I am, Grace. Do not doubt that for a second.”

“Why didn’t you make me a vampire then? I wouldn’t have drowned. We could have stayed together—”

An anguished groan tore from his throat. “Don’t think I have not tortured myself with that regret every minute of the past one hundred years. If I had done what you asked, I never would have lost you.” He closed his eyes at the memory. “When I learned your father had taken you to France, I was immediately on a ship on my way after you. I was caught in the same storm, but when it ended, there was no sign of your ship. All aboard were lost before dawn.”

“Quarter past five,” Grace murmured softly.

He glanced at her and said, “Perhaps.” After a moment, he began again. “I cannot say for sure what I did for decades after that. I was so consumed with grief and rage over losing you, I truly became a monster. I killed indiscriminately, with no mercy. I am ashamed now of the terrible things I did during that time.”

Instead of recoiling from him, she placed a kiss on his cheek.

Her touch warmed him. Phillip went on, “I existed in a murky haze, drifting from place to place, country to country, continent to continent. Living forever is a torturous existence when you have no wish to live. Until one day I woke up and everything changed. That aching, endless pain of losing you was gone. I felt I suddenly had a reason to live. I felt there was hope. It was such an astonishing change that I marked the day. It was February 17, 1840.”

“That’s my birthday!” she cried in astonishment.

“I know.” He smiled at her. “But I didn’t know it at the time. All I knew then was that I wanted to change how I was. I wanted to live. It was a few years later I sensed that you were alive. I knew you were living somewhere and I had to find you. Your dreams called out to me, I suppose, as you grew older.”

Grace explained, “They’ve just always been with me, so different from regular dreams. I could never rid myself of the feeling that they were important. Sometimes I would have the same dream over and over. The dream of when we first met, by the little stone fence. Do you remember that?”

“Like it was yesterday.” He placed a kiss on her lips. “You were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”

She smiled at him. “I had that dream for years. Then I would dream about other meetings, other times of us together. They became more frequent and more intense in this past year.”

“You dreamed more as I got closer to you.”

“But if Gráinne knew you were a vampire, why didn’t I dream about your being a vampire? Why didn’t I know that? That part was so vague.”

“Because I didn’t want you to know that until I saw you first, because I assumed you knew what a vampire was. I didn’t want you to be frightened of me.”

“You influenced my dreams?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “To a certain extent. Being a vampire is a highly guarded secret and I can control what you know about me. I wanted to tell you myself. I wanted to explain.”

Grace stayed quiet.

As he held her warm, naked body in his arms, he had revealed many secrets to her. As ugly as those secrets were, she did not seem to be repulsed by him as he feared she might have been. Uncertain how much she had changed from being Gráinne to Grace, he did not know how she would react to his secret. Gráinne had not feared him, but he did not know what to expect from Grace.

“So what happens now?” she finally asked.

“That is up to you.”

“I am not marrying Lord Grayson.”

He laughed, filled with satisfaction at her words. “I should hope not! Not after what we’ve done in this bed all day.”

“Phillip?” she asked hesitantly.

“What is it?”

“Are you going to make me a vampire?”

A long silence ensued. His eyes focused on her. “I want you with me always, Grace, because I know what it is like to live without you. But as before, I would hate to take your humanity from you. I would hate to make you a monster.”

“But would you if I asked you to?”

He hesitated, just as he had done when Gráinne asked him a century ago. “Yes.”

Her pretty blue eyes widened.

“But only if you have had time to think about what you are committing to, what it really means, and how the world as you know it will change completely. Once you become a vampire, it cannot be undone. It is nothing to take lightly.”

She kissed him and he felt as if the sun had warmed him. “Will you explain more of the details to me?”

“If you promise to take some time, a few days at least, to consider the impact of becoming a vampire with me. When you are quite sure, then I will make you a vampire.”

“Do you know how to make a vampire? Have you made one before?” Her blue eyes glanced at him in uncertainty.

“Yes. And no.” He certainly knew how to make one, but he had never bestowed that horror on a human being and he had huge reservations about doing so to Grace. However, he had lived the alternative and knew, once having found her again, there was no way he could exist without her in his life. He had to make her a vampire. But he wanted her to have more time to think about the gravity of the choice she was making. “You need to go home and decide you want to be a vampire when you are not naked in my bed and under my influence. I won’t take no for an answer on this.”

Grace suddenly sat up, panic on her face. “Good heavens! Home! What must they be thinking? What time is it? How long have I been here?”

“It’s almost six o’clock in the evening.”

“I’ve been with you all day!” she cried in anguish. “I left a note that I’d only gone for a walk. They must be frantic looking for me by now.”

He sought to calm her. “Get dressed and I will take you home.”

“What can I tell them? They won’t believe I was out walking in the rain all day.”

“Most likely not, but you can say you were with a friend.”

She gave him a wry look and then hurried to dress as Phillip watched her. She was beautiful and sweet, just as she had been as Gráinne. He could not believe his good fortune in finding her for a second time. He had been lucky to even meet someone as wonderful as her a century ago. To have her in his life once again brought him more happiness than he had a right to have.

Chapter Seven

Every lamp was lit and the house was practically glowing from the street. Filled with dread, Grace entered the house. As much as she hated leaving Phillip and had toyed with the idea of simply staying with him forever, she knew he was right. She had to make a clean break with her human life before she joined him in his vampire world.

As was always her way, she needed to wrap matters up neatly and say her goodbyes. She had to face Mary one last time. She had to end her engagement with Lord Grayson in person. He had been nothing but kind to her and she owed him at least that much respect.

Grace squared her shoulders and opened the door. The household was in an uproar and her sudden entrance only made it worse. A chorus of shouts and cries greeted her as the servants gathered around her in the foyer.

“She’s home!”

“She’s safe!”

“Oh, Miss Grace, we have been looking for you everywhere!”

Mary loomed in the doorway of the parlor, her round face pinched in a tight frown and her eyes narrowed with mistrust. Lord Grayson stood behind her. Grace felt a twinge of guilt when she saw the worry and concern on his features. He rushed to her side, placing an arm around her shoulder and guiding her into the warm parlor.

“My dear, are you all right? We have been searching for you all afternoon. I came right over as soon as Mrs. Sutton sent a note around telling me you had not returned from your walk.”

Mary waved the servants away and followed Grace into the parlor. Grace sensed her mother-in-law’s anger boring into her spine, but knew Mary would say nothing in front of Lord Grayson. She’d save her wrath for when they were alone.

Lord Grayson escorted Grace to a seat on the sofa, where he helped her take off her coat. As she removed her hat and gloves, he sat beside her, clearly worried, his face appearing older than she remembered.

Mary did not sit, but said in a clipped tone, “I can see that you are unharmed and quite well, Grace, so I can assume you were not in any danger all day. You left this house before dawn, without a word to anyone, sending everyone into a panic over your whereabouts and safety. Now you return over twelve hours later as if nothing were amiss. I think you owe us the decency of an explanation.”

Lord Grayson gave her a puzzled look. “Are you sure you are unhurt, my dear?”

“I am fine,” Grace assured him. Her life had turned completely upside down in the past day, but she could divulge only so much information.

He patted her shoulder. “I am relieved to know you are well, but I must admit to my curiosity. Where have you been all day, Grace?”

She avoided Mary’s eyes and focused on Lord Grayson. “I was with a friend.”

“What friend?” Mary demanded, her voice rising in anger.

Grace placed her hand over his. “May I speak with you privately, Reginald?”

“Yes, of course.” He turned pointedly to Mary. “If you would please excuse us, Mrs. Sutton.”

Mary huffed in indignation and stalked from the room.

He turned back to her with a questioning expression and squeezed her hand. “I have the most dreadful feeling I am not going to like what I am about to hear.”

Grace took a deep breath. “I fear you are correct, Reginald.” Pausing, she gazed into his kind eyes. As nice as he was, she might have found a kind of peace with him. They might have led a very pleasant life together. Had she not met Phillip. Again. After the day she had spent in his bed, there was no possibility of her settling for Reginald. It would spell misery for both of them, for in her heart she would always want to be with the man she loved. Phillip.

Grace took a deep breath before the words spilled out. “I am very sorry, but I cannot marry you after all.”

He looked away from her, as if he could not bear to see her face. Grace felt sick, even though she knew she was making the right decision. As much as she longed to be with Phillip, Reginald needed to be with a woman who loved him in return.

“That is what I feared.” He turned back to face her. “May I ask why you have changed your mind about becoming my wife? Has it anything to do with who you were with today?”

“Yes,” she paused, considering just how much to share with him. “I have discovered that I am in love with someone else.”

The expression on his face looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach and his lips made a tight line. “I see.” He pulled his hand away from hers.

Grace could not meet his eyes. “I am sorry.”

“Is it Lord Radcliffe?” he asked.

She nodded her head. “How did you know?”

“Your mother-in-law mentioned that you were . . . lingering with him on the steps last night. How can this be, Grace? You only just met the man.” His words were tinged with a hint of anger.

“Yes, I know,” Grace attempted to explain. “It seems rather sudden, but I assure that our feelings are true and that—”

“Your feelings?” Lord Grayson rose from the sofa and began to pace back and forth in front of her. “It seems you have not considered anyone’s feelings in this situation but your own, Grace. My feelings were not something you thought of. We announced our engagement to everyone. You have now publicly humiliated me with this Radcliffe man. I am the seventh Earl of Grayson. How can I face anyone, knowing my fiancée has jilted me for another man? How can I hold up my head?”

Tears stung behind her eyes and she blinked. Oh, he was taking this much worse than she had expected. “I am very sorry, Reginald. I did not intend to hurt you or humiliate you—”

“Did you not spend the entire day with this man, unchaperoned?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“Did you not sit here in this very room two nights ago and promise to become my wife?” His angry words echoed through the parlor.

“I—” she began again, but he would not let her speak.

“Did you not kiss me and plan a December wedding while sitting exactly where you are now?”

“Yes, I did, but—”

“You break your promises too easily, Grace. You have humiliated me and proven yourself to be a woman of loose morals and low character. I am well rid of you. Goodnight.” He turned and stalked from the parlor.

Grace covered her face with her hands. No, he had not taken it well at all. But at least it was done now. Her heart ached for him and she felt wretched about breaking her promise. But how could she explain that she had met the vampire she loved one hundred years ago and was now going to become one herself so they could be together forever? She shook her head and a hysterical laugh bubbled within her. No, he was quite right. He was well rid of her.

She rose and wrung her hands together. She still had Mary to deal with. But not now. It had been an overwhelming and exhausting day and Mary could wait until morning. Grateful that her mother-in-law was nowhere to be seen, she made her way up the main staircase to her bedroom, longing for a hot bath and some quiet and solitude. Grace opened the door of her bedroom and froze at the sight.

Good heavens! Her neat and orderly room was a shambles! Everything had been searched. Her wardrobe was wide open and articles of her clothing were strewn about the floor. Every drawer was open and upended. Her elegant writing desk had been turned upside down. Every memento and keepsake of her life had been touched, moved, pawed through.

And worst of all, Mary Sutton sat in the overstuffed armchair in the middle of her room with her wire spectacles perched on her nose. Grace’s dream journal was in her hands.

Mary sneered, her round face a study in disgust. She held up the leather-bound journal as if it contained all the world’s sins. “It is no wonder my poor son hung himself to get away from you.”

Covering her chest with her hands, Grace gasped, not only at the outrageous invasion of her privacy, but also at the pure venom in the woman’s words.

“How dare you say such a thing to me!” Grace cried, furious at being blamed for Henry’s death.

Ever since that horrific day, Mary had not so subtly been hinting that Grace was the reason Henry had taken his life. Not that Grace needed more cause for grief, for she had tortured herself many a night worrying that she had inadvertently done something to make her young husband end his life. A good enough reason never surfaced, whether real or perceived, to rationalize what he had done, not only to himself, but also to her and their life together. After burying herself in sorrow for years and allowing her mother-in-law to punish her for something she had not done, Grace had finally begun to grow angry over the situation.

She was angry with Henry for being utterly selfish and for leaving her alone. Angry at Mary for forcing her to lie to everyone about how Henry had died and for making her feel responsible for his death. And most of all, angry with herself for allowing the situation to come to this.

Now to have Mary fling such hateful words at her and to see her private, intimate dreams and thoughts in the hands of her mother-in-law was more than Grace could bear. She wasn’t sure if the change in her was due to spending the day with Phillip or knowing that she was about to permanently remove herself from this life that she could finally stand up for herself.

“Oh,” Mary hissed coldly, “I have every right to dare, since what you do in my house reflects on me!”

Something in Grace finally snapped. “This is my house. Henry left it to me. What I do in my house is my business. It is only by my generosity that I allow you to stay here!”

Mary’s face turned almost purple with outrage and a rush of triumph flooded through Grace. It wasn’t often she left Mary speechless. They had never discussed the fact that the house belonged to Grace, because Grace had been too considerate and never wanted Henry’s mother to feel that she had to leave her home. But Grace wanted her to leave now. She never wanted to lay eyes on the woman again.

Mary sputtered some incoherent words before rising from the armchair and taking a step toward Grace. She still clutched the journal tightly in her hand. “I suppose this ugly behavior of yours has something to do with your disappearance today. You were with him all day, weren’t you?”

Grace did not care anymore. “As a matter of fact, I was.”

“After I expressly forbade you to see him?”

“Yes.” Grace folded her arms across her chest. “I am going to marry him.”

“That’s what he says now, you stupid little fool, to get you into his bed. He’s not going to marry you. You just met him, for God’s sake! And you now have ruined your engagement with Lord Grayson.”

“I broke off my engagement with him before he left. I am marrying Lord Radcliffe within the week,” Grace declared boldly, surprising herself with her newfound assertiveness with Mary.

Mary nodded her head slowly as if she knew better. “Well, it is quite obvious to me what has happened to you. It is a good thing I have already sent for Doctor Vickers.”

Grace’s brows drew together in confusion. “Doctor Vickers?”

He was the family physician, but she had no idea why Mary would summon him here tonight. Grace had never liked the man. He always looked at her in a leering way that made her uncomfortable. She was thankful she was healthy and had no cause for his services, unlike Mary, who called on him several times a month for her various and vague illnesses.

“Yes. It is apparent that you are in need of professional help, Grace.”

Grace laughed at the absurdity of her assertion.

“I have been worried about you for some time,” Mary continued. “Your sleeplessness and waking at odd hours. Your ravings about wicked dreams and past lives in this journal. Your reckless behavior in disappearing today and spending time alone with Lord Radcliffe, a man you hardly know. And, of course, breaking an engagement to a well-respected and wealthy earl is clearly the action of an unbalanced mind.”

“An unbalanced mind?” Grace echoed in disbelief.

“Ah, Doctor Vickers.” Mary’s eyes moved behind Grace. “It was good of you to come right over. I’ve been so worried.”

Grace spun around to see the rather tall, broadshouldered, bearded, and bespectacled doctor standing in the doorway of her bedroom. He held a black leather medical bag in his hand. A chill of unease crept through her.

“Good evening, Mrs. Sutton.” He nodded his head in her direction, his eyes flickering over her. “Miss Grace.”

“It’s worse than I first thought, Doctor. Just look at her. Look at this room.” Mary waved her hand, indicating that Grace had created the terrible mess. “Grace has become completely irrational and her behavior quite reckless. She ran off in the pouring rain before dawn this morning, without telling a soul where she had gone. And as I suspected, she spent the entire day being seduced by an evil man she barely knows. Then this evening she broke her engagement with Lord Grayson. If that weren’t proof enough, there is this journal, full of lurid descriptions of sinful dreams and desires of another life she claims to have had.”

“The situation does seem rather worrisome.” His sharp eyes raked over Grace and she could not help but shiver. “It is most fortunate that you sent for me, Mrs. Sutton.”

Grace stared between the two of them. They thought she was insane. Suppressing a nervous laugh, she began to speak. “Doctor Vickers, please let me explain—”

“Now, now, Miss Grace. There is nothing to get upset about.” He stepped toward her more quickly than she thought a man of his size could move and placed his hand quite forcefully on her arm, compelling her to step backward. “Why don’t you have a seat in this chair and rest for a while?”

She stumbled and he practically pushed her into the armchair where Mary had first been seated.

“There is nothing wrong with me,” Grace protested, as panic began to grow within her. Something was happening and Mary had planned it.

Doctor Vickers loomed over her, peering closely. “Her eyes are quite dilated.” He set his black bag upon the small end table next to the chair and began rummaging through it. “Mrs. Sutton, may I ask you to leave us for a moment while I examine her?”

Mary smiled triumphantly at Grace. “Of course, Doctor.” She hurried from the room, closing the door behind her.

“Now, now, Miss Grace, there is nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about. I can take care of you.” He uncorked a small amber glass bottle filled with a dark liquid. “If you drink this, my dear, you will sleep tonight without those dreams troubling you.”

“I don’t wish to drink that. And I am not having troubling dreams.” She attempted to stand, but he easily pressed her back into the chair.

“You mean you deny all that Mrs. Sutton has claimed to be true?”

“Yes, I deny it!” she cried in indignation. “I am perfectly sane!”

He set the glass bottle upon the table next to his bag and took hold of her wrist. “Then you did not break your engagement with Lord Grayson this evening?” he asked in a calm tone, as he felt for her pulse.

Grace shook her head. “No, I did break it off with him, but—”

“Then you did not spend the day with another man when you know such an action would destroy your reputation forever?” he questioned, his eyes glittering shrewdly.

Grace felt her cheeks turn scarlet at the memory of all she had done that day with Phillip. She could not answer.

“I see from your lack of response that that accusation is also true.” Doctor Vickers flashed a sly grin, revealing crooked front teeth. “Your pulse is racing. And what about the erotic dreams, Grace? Do you deny writing about them as well?”

“I . . . I . . .” Mortification engulfed her completely and she regretted ever writing her private, intimate dreams in that blasted journal. “No, I do not deny it,” she murmured so low she barely heard her own voice.

“Do you believe you have lived another life?”

The ridiculousness of the statement sounded so glaring when he said it. Grace knew it to be true from the deepest depths of her soul, but did not know how to explain it in a rational way. She had lived and loved Phillip in another life, but she knew no one would believe her. She said nothing.

“I thought so,” he whispered.

His hand moved with deliberate slowness up the length of her arm and brushed lightly across her breasts, lingering there before placing his hand over her heart. She recoiled from his touch, pressing herself into the back of the chair.

“Yours are not the actions of a sane woman, Grace.”

No, perhaps they were not after all, she thought. Maybe she had gone insane. It would explain why she had agreed to let Lord Radcliffe change her into a vampire. All of what had happened to her in the past few days was crazy. Perhaps she had gone stark raving mad?

Releasing her, Doctor Vickers reached into his bag to grab some sort of instrument with a long wooden tube. “I’ll need you to unbutton your dress, Grace, so I can listen to your heart properly. Loosen the corset also,” he commanded coolly.

“There is no need for this,” she began. “I assure you, I am perfectly fine.”

“You are not fine,” he stated in a harsh tone, startling her. “Your pulse is rapid, your eyes are dilated, your cheeks are flushed, and you are overwrought. Now I insist upon listening to your heart. Would you rather I have Mrs. Sutton join us?”

Grace preferred to be humiliated without Mary looking on. The sooner she got the examination over with, the sooner the doctor would leave. Reluctantly she began to unfasten the buttons down the front of her green plaid gown, recalling that she had done the same thing in front of Phillip earlier today. Shame flooded her now, where it had not this morning when she had undressed for Phillip. Feeling Doctor Vickers’s eyes on her, she unbuttoned her gown to just below her chest, just enough to loosen the ties on her corset. She kept her hands poised to shove him away.

Without saying a word, the doctor leaned his head closer to her, placing the long wooden instrument against her chest and the other end of it to his ear. His face was entirely too close to her breasts as he listened for some time. His hot breath warmed her skin, yet made her shiver in disgust. She concentrated on the sound of the rain slapping against the window.

He raised his head and removed the medical instrument, yet kept his eyes on her. His expression was puzzled. “You have a most irregular heartbeat.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, hurrying to button up her dress.

“It could mean a variety of things, but we would need more tests done in my surgery. I can examine you properly there. However, that is not what worries me now.”

“What is it?”

“Your behavior is not rational.”

“That is not for you to decide,” she said as she fastened the last button.

Suddenly the door opened and Mary entered, her sharp eyes taking in the situation. Grace was shocked to see Lord Grayson following behind her mother-in-law’s large figure.

“Reginald!” Grace exclaimed. He would not meet her eyes. Why had he come back? His departure earlier had seemed so final.

“Well, Doctor Vickers?” Mary questioned eagerly. “What is your professional opinion?”

“I think you were quite right in your assessment, Mrs. Sutton.”

Mary nodded her head in grim satisfaction. “As much as I hate to admit such a thing, I was afraid that might be the case. Lord Grayson has returned and would like to weigh in on the matter.”

Grace stared at the three of them. Weigh in on the matter? What was going on here? “There is nothing the matter. I am fine,” she stated yet again.

Lord Grayson focused all of his attention on Doctor Vickers, ignoring Grace completely. “I don’t know what to think, quite frankly. She seemed perfectly rational when she agreed to be my wife. I did not suspect her of being the flighty, impetuous type or I would not have asked her to marry me in the first place. You can imagine my surprise to learn of her scandalous behavior today, running around after a man she hardly knows, and my greater shock when she confessed to me that she is in love with this man and needed to break our engagement. After Mrs. Sutton revealed to me just now the lurid contents of her dream journal, I am terribly worried for Grace’s mental state. I care for her a great deal and I would hate to see her come to any harm. The change in her is dramatic and her behavior is not that of a sane woman.”

Doctor Vickers nodded his head. “Those were my thoughts exactly.”

“You are already aware of my position,” Mary chimed in. “This is a sad day for me. To see the woman I thought of as my own daughter for ten years, come to this.”

“Come to what?” Grace shouted in frustration.

“She is not even aware of how extreme her behavior is,” Doctor Vickers said to them. “Yet she does not deny any of it.”

Mary made a “tsk, tsk” sound and frowned sadly. “I never would have expected such from her, but she even threatened to force me out of my home this evening.”

Grace tightened her hands into fists. “I did no such thing!”

“Look at her,” Mary said, shaking her head with pity. “May God have mercy on her poor soul.”

Lord Grayson stayed mute, still avoiding her eyes, but looked appalled.

Doctor Vickers cleared his throat. “There is only one thing to do then and I believe we are all in agreement.”

Panic laced with fear welled within Grace’s chest. It was as if they had come to some kind of prearranged consensus about her. She took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly, knowing that if she became upset they would only use it against her. “There is nothing wrong with my mental state. I am perfectly sane and I know exactly what I am doing. The three of you can leave my room, and my house, immediately.”

They simply ignored her and acted as if she had not spoken at all.

“It is rather late to take her this evening, but I can make an exception,” Doctor Vickers said. He gazed at Grace with unmasked lust and she unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself.

“You are not taking me anywhere,” she stated firmly.

“There is no need to go to all the trouble to proceed there tonight, especially with the rain,” Mary said, again ignoring Grace. “It can wait until the morning.”

“We can give her this.” The doctor held up the small amber-colored bottle. “It will calm her and help her sleep through the night.”

“I am not going anywhere,” Grace stated again in a louder voice, “and I am not taking anything this man gives me.”

Lord Grayson had a pained expression on his face as he asked, “Will she be safe there?”

“She shall be perfectly safe, for I shall see to her personally,” Doctor Vickers said, his eyes glittering. “I give you my word on that.”

“This is ridiculous!” Grace exclaimed. “I am not insane simply because I broke off an engagement because I fell in love with someone else. I am not insane for writing about my dreams!”

Doctor Vickers handed the bottle to Mary. “We will try to give this to her later. Perhaps I should stay here this evening just in case?”

Mary took the bottle and nodded her head. “Yes, that would be best.” She moved toward the door.

Lord Grayson gave her a cold and distant look and Grace wondered how she had ever thought she could marry the man. He left the room hurriedly.

Doctor Vickers said, “Good evening, Grace. I shall see you in the morning. You need only ring for me and I shall come.”

“That is highly unlikely,” she snapped at him.

He smiled at her and exited the room. Mary’s eyes narrowed. “I shall pray for you all night, Grace.” She too left the room, closing the door behind her.

And Grace was left alone.

It wasn’t until she heard the key in the lock on the other side of the door that she realized they had locked her in her own bedroom.

Chapter Eight

Something was wrong. Lord Radcliffe paced back and forth in his bedroom. It was almost four in the morning and he knew Grace was not sleeping, for he could not read her dreams. He could not sense anything from her.

When she left, he had said he would give her time, at least three days, before he came for her, so she could consider on her own all sides of what she would become. To be sure. Yes, they loved each other, but what he was asking of her was beyond the realm of love.

As soon as she left he had misgivings about releasing her. He should have kept her with him. Should never have let her out of his sight again.

When she drowned that day a hundred years ago, Phillip had not known how to bear the pain of losing her. Nor the guilt he suffered over not giving her what she so desperately wanted. But Gráinne had had plenty of time to know what she was doing.

It was Phillip who was unsure.

He had never made a vampire before and he was terrified something would go wrong and he would lose her. Oh, he knew what to do, and he had seen it done, but it was a dangerous business. And through his fear and hesitation he lost her anyway.

He was determined not to do that again.

Was Grace that tortured over what she was about to become that she could not sleep? Was she terrified? Was she alone?

Becoming a vampire was not an easy decision to make.

Of course, he had not made the decision for himself. That had been made for him.

When he was thirty years old, he had lived a comfortable life. He was raised by an aristocratic family and experienced a happy childhood. He was an economic advisor to Queen Elizabeth I and held a position at court as the Earl of Radcliffe. He had a pretty young wife, Sara, who had just given birth to their daughter. Phillip had named her Jane, after his mother, and hoped for a son for the next go-round. Yes, he was prosperous and successful and life was good for him. Aside from the death of his father when he was twenty, Phillip had not experienced any hardships and his existence had been pleasant and peaceful.

Until the night he met her.

She had stepped out of the shadows of the castle one evening and he was dumbfounded by her allure. Never had he seen anyone so exquisitely beautiful, so achingly tempting. Her silky black hair fell in waves to her waist and her lush, overripe breasts spilled over the top of her red velvet gown. Long black eyelashes lined the most gorgeous, startlingly green eyes. They mesmerized him. She spoke in a sultry whisper, luring him with her erotic words. Helplessly he took her hand and followed her up the stone steps to her chamber.

Straying from his marriage vows was something he had never had any intention of doing. He loved his wife. He loved his baby daughter. But this woman bewitched him.

This woman destroyed him.

The passionate and highly erotic night spent in her bed had been an incredible mix of pleasure and pain.

When dawn broke the following morning, she revealed the horrific creature she was and what she was going to do to him. Before Phillip could escape the evil woman, she bit his neck, slicing two razor-sharp fangs into his flesh and changing him forever.

When he awoke, shivering and sweating, she was beside him. Lady Anna Barlow instructed him on his new, terrifying existence—the ways of vampires. He could never see his wife and daughter again, for fear he might attack them, so overpowering was his thirst for human blood. Overwhelmed with pain and grief, he let his family think he had disappeared. With Anna by his side and filled with an indescribable anger and self-loathing, Phillip at first killed indiscriminately, caring only to satisfy the endless, torturous thirst within him. And that is what he did. Eventually, Anna left him and he was on his own, which he did not necessarily mind. Losing his wife and daughter had filled him with an aching sadness.

Over many decades, he learned to control his bloodlust and roamed the fetid London streets, searching only for victims who would not be readily missed and whose sad lives would be nothing but a mercy to end. He traveled the world, moving from city to city, country to country, slaking his desires and his thirst in an anonymous haze.

Until the day he met Gráinne.

His entire existence changed the day he saw her beautiful soul and fell helplessly in love. With Gráinne he felt almost human again. He didn’t want to be alone anymore. He only wanted to be with her.

That same soul, the exquisite soul that redeemed and saved him, now inhabited the body of Grace Sutton. He would do anything to make her life easier. Now that he had found her again he would never let her go. He had not sensed any danger from her home environment. Tension yes, but danger no. Her mother-in-law was a tyrant and that Grayson man was not for her. But the fact that she was not sleeping made him anxious. A great unease crept along his spine.

He had fed earlier that evening, along the London docks. It was fertile ground for the refuse of human life. He could dump the bodies in the Thames and no one would suspect a thing. Keeping a low profile was an unbroken code in the secretive and mysterious vampire world.

Slipping on his cape and hat, he made his way through the misty London night to Grace Sutton’s townhouse. He knew the way like the back of his hand, for he had stood beneath her bedroom window for many a night before Grace saw him, reading her dreams.

How he loved and cherished her. This beautiful woman who altered his whole existence . . .

Phillip moved on silent feet down the alley behind her house, until he passed through the garden gate that led into the Suttons’ yard. With his keen night vision he scanned the grounds and then observed the stately stone house. Immediately, he noted that two windows were aglow with lights. How odd for close to five in the morning. He had observed this household for some time now and he knew the servants did not wake this early. The one window he focused on in particular was Grace’s.

The light glowed from within. He saw her at the window and his body froze at the sight of her.

Something was definitely wrong.

It was still so dark outside she could not see him, or she would have signaled to him. Her beautiful face was distraught and creased with worry. Long auburn hair cascaded about her delicate shoulders. He could see she was still wearing the same green plaid dress she had on yesterday. Her hands pressed against the rain-splattered glass as if she were in pain and his body convulsed in response. Sensing danger, his eyes intuitively peered through the other window, in the room next to Grace’s.

This window in particular held his attention, for he did not recognize the large, dark-haired man with spectacles. His hulking form paced the room, walking back and forth in front of the tall window. Who was he and what was his purpose in the Sutton household?

Emitting a low snarl, Phillip clenched his fists. He began to crave blood, even though he had already fed earlier that evening. An unexplainable desire to kill the lumbering man standing in the window coursed through his body. The sheer pleasure of tearing the dark-haired human to shreds and leaving nothing for them to find afterward would be quite intoxicating.

The thought startled him, for he had not felt that unbridled urge of bloodlust in thirty years, since Grace was born and the compulsion to kill for killing’s sake had eased. The man, whoever he was, must have threatened her or had intentions to harm her in some way. It was the only explanation that made sense. And one thing Phillip had learned over the years to never doubt was his senses.

Without hesitating an instant, he quietly unlatched the kitchen door and ascended the servants’ staircase on silent feet. Moving along the upper hallway, he judged which bedroom belonged to Grace from the positioning of the windows. The soft glow of light illuminating her doorway confirmed what he already knew. Her heavenly scent was discernable by then. He reached for the handle but found it locked. Unsurprised, he removed a slender metal key from his pocket. It worked for most any door. The lock clicked and the door opened.

Grace still stood by the window but turned her head at the sound of the door. Fear was etched in her features. Her beautiful blue eyes widened in surprise upon seeing him. They stared for a moment and then she fairly flew into his arms, but he reached her first.

He grabbed her tightly to him, breathing deeply. It felt like days had passed since he had touched her, when it had been merely hours. She rested her head against his chest and he stroked her hair, weaving his fingers through the soft tresses.

“You came,” she murmured against his chest.

“Grace,” he whispered, pressing kisses to the top of her head. “Something is wrong, isn’t it? You haven’t slept all night.”

“Mary brought a doctor here to examine me, to confirm that I’m insane. They found my dream journal and are using it as proof. They want to take me to the asylum in the morning.”

“And they locked you in?”

“Yes,” a deep voice said from behind the doorway. “To keep her from running to you.” He chuckled, the slight sound incongruous from a man that large. “But it seems we erred in not anticipating that you would come to her rescue.”

The large hulking figure he had spied from the window stood in Grace’s bedroom. Phillip would have attacked him before he even finished speaking if he did not have Grace in his arms. But he did. Her entire body tensed with fear due to this man’s presence and she clung to him. Phillip knew nothing could harm her while he was there, but Grace did not know that. Yet.

“You erred on more than one account, then,” Phillip stated in a commanding voice.

The man ignored Phillip’s comment. His eyes glittered as he stared at Grace. “I gather you are the Lord Radcliffe everyone has been referring to this evening. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Doctor Neville Vickers and I can assure you with all medical authority that this woman is a danger to herself and needs proper psychiatric attention. Consider yourself fortunate that you discovered the truth of her mental instability before you rushed into a marriage with her. She is now under my personal care.”

“Like hell she is.”

Doctor Vickers took a small step back at Phillip’s words. Clearly affronted, he took a moment to reassess the situation.

Phillip grinned. The man had no idea what he was up against.

“You need to leave this house now,” Doctor Vickers declared with indignation. “And Grace stays here.”

“No. Grace is leaving with me.” Phillip moved Grace protectively behind his body, holding her hand. She squeezed tightly.

Doctor Vickers shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot let you do that.”

“If you wish to live past dawn, then I suggest you turn around and go back to your room and lock yourself in,” Phillip threatened calmly.

“How dare you come into this house and threaten me?” His eyes narrowed through the wire-framed spectacles.

“Get out of my way,” Phillip commanded.

Doctor Vickers squared his shoulders, blocking the doorway with his bulky body.

Phillip clenched and unclenched his hand. They needed to get out of the house soon. His body thrummed with the urge to rip into the one who endangered Grace’s safety. If he fought with the idiot doctor, the noise would rouse the entire house. On the other hand, he could silence the man permanently without making a sound. He hated to do that in front of Grace, but perhaps she was better off seeing him for what he truly was. A killer. A creature of the night.

A vampire.

Phillip faced her. She looked up at him with worry in her eyes. He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry.” He forced her to take some steps back and released her hand. He turned his full attention to the doctor.

“I must insist you leave the premises. Without Grace,” the doctor commanded. Again he gazed at Grace as if she were a tasty morsel he couldn’t wait to devour.

This was going to be a pleasure for Phillip. In an instant, Phillip was behind the doctor and closed the door. The bulky man spun around, but it was already too late. With his back to Grace, Phillip had bared his teeth. As usual, his movements were so fleeting, so skilled, there was no chance for his victim to struggle. Centuries of honing his lethal moves had made him an efficient killer.

The doctor’s eyes widened in horror but he had no time to scream before Phillip grabbed his thick neck and sank his fangs deep within the white flesh.

The hot rush of blood slowly began to slake the thirst in his throat. Soon, too soon, the doctor’s body slackened and slumped to the carpet, completely drained of its life’s blood.

It took but a few silent moments and it was over. Doctor Neville Vickers was dead. With a shaking hand, Phillip wiped his mouth. Slowly he turned back to face the woman he loved, dreading the expression of horror in her eyes he was certain to see when he did so.

Chapter Nine

Grace could not control the wild hammering of her heart and the rush of noise in her ears. Her whole body trembled, but not with fear. Phillip had just killed Doctor Vickers in front of her very eyes. Thrilled that the vile doctor was gone for good, she felt no remorse at all at his passing. She had no doubt what he intended by having her under his “personal care.” Grace was only shocked by the quickness of the act. Perhaps Mary was right. Maybe Grace was full of sin and doomed to hell.

But that was only if she remained mortal.

She sought Phillip’s warm brown eyes. She smiled at him.

He came to her side, pulling her close. There was incredulous relief in his voice. “You don’t loathe me?”

Grace shook her head and touched his smooth cheek with her fingers. How could she hate the man who had spent a century searching for her? Who had killed to protect her? Who loved her enough for two lifetimes? She had loved him for longer than she could remember, for it had always been him. “I love you.”

He covered her mouth in a searing kiss, before grabbing her hand firmly in his. “We have to leave here now, Grace. There is no more time.”

Without hesitation she nodded and followed him. She would follow him anywhere. Her parents had died when she was young. Her husband had left her in a selfish act of cowardice. Her only other relation had just tried to have her sent to an asylum for the insane.

No, Grace had no one left whom she cared for anymore. Her life was with Phillip now.

They fled her bedroom, closing the door on the lifeless body that lay on the floor. On quiet feet they exited the still-sleeping house. Once again the predawn light was shrouded in thick gray mist. Grace realized she had forgotten her coat. Indeed, she had taken nothing with her. Shivering, she held tight to Phillip’s hand. As if he read her mind, Philip removed his black cape and wrapped it snugly around her shoulders. Grace breathed in the warmth of him. They hurried through the garden gate and into the narrow alley.

By the time they reached his plush carriage, the rain was falling in a torrential downpour. The carriage took off quickly.

“You know we must leave London immediately,” he said calmly. “They will be searching for us both.”

“I have never lived anywhere but here, so I don’t care where we go, as long as we are together.” And truly, all that mattered to her was being with the man she loved. Even if he was a vampire.

The smile that lit his handsome face made her heart turn over in her chest.

“We shall make a quick stop at my house, for papers and money, and we’ll be on our way.”

“To where?”

“Paris?” he suggested.

“Why not?” She laughed at the outrageousness of it all.

He kissed her mouth and her blood raced.

“There is one thing we must do first,” she said. “Today.”

Phillip stared at her.

She looked into his dark eyes, wanting nothing more than to be with this man for all eternity. No matter what the cost. She leaned back into the crook of his arm, her auburn curls falling to the side, exposing the soft, white skin of her neck.

“Please,” Grace whispered softly, echoing the words Gráinne had uttered to him a century ago. “Make me what you are.”

HIGHLAND HUNGER

“Tonight I mean to mark ye as mine.”

“Mark me?”

“Aye. I am going to give ye what we call the mating bite. It doesnae fade away like the others I have given ye. We dinnae ken why, but once given, it stays and is a sign all MacNachtons can read.”

“One that says mine? ”

“I want to give ye the chance to say aye or nay.”

“Aye. Hear that? Aye.” She kissed him with all the love and heated passion she felt for him.

Raibeart gave up even trying to talk and lost himself in the heat of her. Just as he felt her body tighten around his, the throb of that impending release echoing in his own body, he pushed her hair back from her neck. He was fighting to find the wit to ask one more time when his delicate woman placed a hand on the back of his neck and pushed his face against her neck.

from “Dark Embrace”

Books by Hannah Howell

ONLY FOR YOU * MY VALIANT KNIGHT
UNCONQUERED * WILD ROSES
A TASTE OF FIRE * HIGHLAND DESTINY
HIGHLAND HONOR * HIGHLAND PROMISE
A STOCKINGFUL OF JOY * HIGHLAND VOW
HIGHLAND KNIGHT * HIGHLAND HEARTS
HIGHLAND BRIDE * HIGHLAND ANGEL
HIGHLAND GROOM * HIGHLAND WARRIOR
RECKLESS * HIGHLAND CONQUEROR
HIGHLAND CHAMPION * HIGHLAND LOVER
HIGHLAND VAMPIRE * THE ETERNAL HIGHLANDER
MY IMMORTAL HIGHLANDER * CONQUEROR’S KISS
HIGHLAND BARBARIAN * BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
HIGHLAND SAVAGE * HIGHLAND THIRST
HIGHLAND WEDDING * HIGHLAND WOLF
SILVER FLAME * HIGHLAND FIRE
NATURE OF THE BEAST * HIGHLAND CAPTIVE
HIGHLAND SINNER * MY LADY CAPTOR
IF HE’S WICKED * WILD CONQUEST
IF HE’S SINFUL * KENTUCKY BRIDE * IF HE’S WILD
YOURS FOR ETERNITY * COMPROMISED HEARTS
HIGHLAND PROTECTOR * STOLEN ECSTASY
IF HE’S DANGEROUS * HIGHLAND HERO
HIGHLAND HUNGER

Books by Jackie Ivie

HEAT OF THE KNIGHT * A KNIGHT WELL SPENT
ONCE UPON A KNIGHT * A KNIGHT AND WHITE SATIN
KNIGHT EVERLASTING

Books by Michele Sinclair

THE HIGHLANDER’S BRIDE * TO WED A HIGHLANDER
DESIRING THE HIGHLANDER * THE CHIRSTMAS KNIGHT
TEMPTING THE HIGHLANDER

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

HIGHLAND HUNGER

HANNAH HOWELL
MICHELE SINCLAIR
JACKIE IVIE

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

HIGHLAND HUNGER
Books by Hannah Howell
Title Page
DARK EMBRACE

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten

A KNIGHT BEYOND BLACK

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen

THE GUARDIAN

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight

DARK EMBRACE

Hannah Howell

Chapter One

“Bleeding bitch! That witch is cursing us!”

Raibeart frowned at the words cutting through the predawn quiet. He had already paused in his ride to the caves because of the noise of people thrashing their way through the woods. Whoever the fools were, they were stumbling their way all over the path he had chosen to get to his shelter. That could cause a delay, and time was not something he had much of. He moved his horse deeper into the shadows of a small stand of trees fighting each other for space.

“There she is!”

Just as he wondered if he could slip around the men, Raibeart caught sight of their prey. Her pale hair was a beacon for her enemies. Even men without the keen sight of a MacNachton could see that hair in the dim gray of approaching dawn. Slender, her skirts hiked up high to make running easier and revealing strong slim legs that swiftly stirred his interest, she did not look much like the women men usually decried as witches. She was young and buxom. The slender form he grew more interested in by the moment suddenly stilled. He watched as she caught sight of her pursuers and then she bolted.

“Wheesht, Tor, the lass can run,” he muttered to his horse as he watched the woman race through the trees, leaping over every obstacle with nimble grace. “Shame she is doing naught but running in circles.”

Despite their clumsiness, the five men chasing her managed to herd her into the center of the small clearing and soon encircled her. Raibeart studied the way the woman crouched slightly, moving with care to keep each man in her sight. There was something about the way she moved, the way she so skillfully evaded each lunge of a man, and the way the men approached her as if she were some dangerous animal that sharpened his interest in her beyond the mere physical appreciation of her beauty. Her hands were curved in a way that resembled claws as she slashed out at the men, and he could hear her growl softly. If not for the waves of fair hair hanging to her slender hips, he would think she carried MacNachton blood.

He looked up at the sky. A rapidly approaching dawn had already lightened the dark of night into a paler gray. The sun would begin to climb into the sky soon. The safety of the caves beckoned but he shrugged. He had time to rescue a fair-haired woman. Raibeart secured the reins around his left hand, studied the ground, and touched the sword sheathed on the saddle.

“Ready, Tor? I am thinking we have a few moments to be gallant, aye?” He began to walk his horse closer toward his target, wanting to be just a little nearer to the woman before he charged. “A little fun before taking our rest. Mayhap our journey will then be less of an utter failure.”

Una struggled to catch her breath. She was not as strong or as fast as she needed to be to fight these men. Blood loss and months locked in a cage had sapped her strength. The thought that she was failing the ones who depended upon her to help them only added to her growing weakness, stirring a weariness that went to her soul. She had such hope in her heart when she had first fled Dunmorton, but that hope was rapidly turning to ashes at her feet.

“Ye are more trouble than ye are worth,” said Donald, the one Una considered the meanest, ugliest, and most slack-witted of the laird’s venal minions. “I dinnae ken why the laird wants ye back.”

She suddenly recalled that not all of the laird’s men knew why the laird held her and the others captive, except to give the old man a ready supply of young women to force to his bed. That did not explain the two youths or the two children, but the men of Dunmorton were not known for their deep thoughts. She wondered if telling them the truth would turn them against the man. These men were already jealous of their laird and his favorites, angered that they did not share the women they kept caged. That jealousy could be turned to rage if they discovered what else the old man was not sharing.

Then she met Donald’s narrowed eyes and cast aside the thought of stirring dissent in the ranks. It would probably work but would be of no help to her. Donald would do his best to kill her before he raced back to the keep to demand his fair share of the laird’s bounty. Una did not think the knowledge that Donald and the lackwits with him would be swiftly killed would offer her much joy, for she would be dead. And, she thought, if these men learned the truth, the people she had hoped to save would soon die as well.

“I dinnae believe the laird would appreciate his lackeys questioning him,” she said.

“And he doesnae appreciate his game escaping its cage, either.”

“Tsk, it seems disappointment must be the madmon’s lot this day, aye?” She turned her head to hiss at the man trying to creep up on her side. “Back away, ye wee bastard, or I will rip ye open and strangle ye with your own innards.”

She could tell by the way Red Rob narrowed his eyes that her reference to his short stature would cost her. From the moment she had been dragged to Dunmorton and he had realized that she was several inches taller than him, he had loathed her, taking what few chances he got to add to her misery. If these men caught her, Red Rob would make sure that she suffered every step of the way back to captivity.

If? Una almost laughed aloud. There was no uncertainty about her fate. She could not stop the men from capturing her. The only thing in question at the moment was how much damage she could inflict upon them before they brought her down. Una prayed it would be a lot.

Failure was a bitter taste on the back of her tongue. She had tried so hard, planned so carefully, that it struck her as monstrously unfair that she should fail. Even worse, Una knew she would never find a chance to try again, nor would any of the others. They would all spend what remained of their pitiful lives locked in cages, the women dragged to the laird’s bedchamber whenever he demanded it, and all of them bled repeatedly to make the laird and his chosen men strong. The thought of the youngest of the laird’s captives suffering such a fate made her want to scream out in rage.

Una was just thinking that she would put an end to the game by going on the attack when the sound of hooves thundering over the ground made her and her enemies tense. The way her attackers’ eyes widened and they all stepped back, scurrying away until she had no one at her back, caused Una to glance in the direction of the approaching sound. If whatever came their way frightened her enemy, it could only be good for her.

Her glance turned into an open-mouthed stare. A huge black horse was galloping their way, but it was the man seated on the impressive beast that fully grasped her attention and held it. He was big, big enough that he needed a horse that size just to carry his weight. Long black hair, broad shoulders, and a wide grin on his handsome face—a wide grin that revealed a glimpse of what looked like fangs.

She did not flinch when he leaned down, holding out a hand as he drew near yet barely reining in his mount. Una weighed her choices in that heartbeat of time it took for him to reach her. Five men to battle or one big one. The choice was clear. She grabbed his wrist and leapt up, noting his strength as he easily drew her up behind him.

The men who had encircled her scattered before the charging horse. She wrapped her arms around the man’s waist as he rode through the clearing twice, driving her enemies farther away. When he then kicked his mount back into a full charging gallop, riding away from the laird’s men, she hung on tightly and tried to decide what she should do next.

Una frowned when the first thought to enter her head was that the man smelled good. His thick black hair brushed against her face as they rode, and she liked the feel of it touching her skin. Cursing softly, she forced such strange thoughts from her mind. Men had proved to be nothing but a threat to her from an early age, and she refused to allow such womanly thoughts to distract her from the most important thing—escape.

Leaping from the back of a galloping horse was not a good idea, she decided as she looked down at the ground, which passed by beneath the animal’s hooves at an alarming speed. If she did not break her neck, she would certainly break something else, making escape impossible. She glanced up at the brightening sky and knew it would be a clear, sunny day. By the time the sun was at its zenith, she would have to find shelter or be too weak to get away from anyone. It appeared that her only chance to escape would come when her rescuer slowed down enough for her to leap off the horse and run, but he showed little inclination to do that.

She frowned even more as he headed straight toward the hills. There would be shelter there but only if she stayed with or near this man. Una was not sure why he would take her into the hills, but she doubted that his reasons were ones she would like. She inwardly cursed, knowing that she would soon have to make yet another quick decision, whether to run or stay and take the chance that this man was truly intent upon saving her. He could be, but she knew how quickly that could change if he discovered what she truly was.

Life had not treated her fairly, she thought, allowing herself to wallow in the mire of self-pity for a moment. She had lost her family to a fever that had never touched her. That had only added to the villagers’ suspicions that there was something different about her. As if being blond, blue-eyed, and taller than most women, even some men, was not enough. Still grieving for her family, she had been driven away from the village, forced to survive on her own for years. Then she had found herself caged and bled to fulfill the dreams of a madman who wanted a long life. That made all she had already suffered to stay alive pale into insignificance.

Una shook aside her maudlin thoughts. She was still alive and, at the moment, still free. That was all that mattered now. She still had a chance to help her fellow prisoners.

Idly studying the wide shoulders and strong back of the man she rode behind, and ruthlessly smothering the spark of interest such a sight stirred within her, Una tried to decide if she could trust him. Even more importantly, could she take him down if he proved to be untrustworthy? She was strong, she was fast, and she had very sharp teeth. All had kept her alive and freed her from many a man’s attempt to take what she did not wish to give. None of those men, however, had been as big and strong as this one.

She briefly considered immediately ending whatever threat the man who had pulled her out of the trap she had been in might offer. It would be easy to wrap her hands around his neck, strangle him or simply snap his neck. The mere thought of doing so, or of using her teeth to inflict a mortal wound, turned her stomach. He had rescued her from certain capture, from a return to the cage the laird had waiting for her, whatever his reasons might be for such an act. It would also be cold-blooded murder, and she had never stooped to that. Una quickly smothered a sigh. She would have to wait to see what he would do next before she acted.

The woman pressed against his back was thinking so hard Raibeart was surprised he could not hear her. From the way her tempting body had tensed, slumped, tensed again, and then straightened, he suspected she was trying to decide if he was friend or foe. Obviously rescuing her from those men had not been enough to win her trust. Considering she had just been chased down by five men acting like hounds on the scent of a hare, he was not surprised.

“What is your name?” he asked as his mount made its careful way up the rocky slope of the first hill, toward the cave that would shelter him from the sun’s killing light.

“Una Dunn,” she replied after a brief hesitation.

“I am Raibeart MacNachton, Sir Raibeart MacNachton.”

“Weel met, sir.”

“Truly? Ye dinnae appear certain of that.”

Una scowled at the back of his head. She struggled to ignore how his long thick black hair tempted her with the urge to touch. There was no way the man could know all the doubts she was suffering from. She had learned to hide what she felt very well over the years.

“I have no doubt that I needed to be rescued,” she said.

“Just about the rescuer.”

“I dinnae ken who ye are, sir. I would be a fool not to be wary about a mon I dinnae ken, have ne’er met, nor have heard even the smallest rumor about.”

“True. Ye can come to ken who I am as we rest.”

“Rest? But the day has only just begun. The sun isnae even fully risen yet.”

“And I have been riding through the night so I must rest for a wee while. I suspect ye didnae get much rest, either.”

Una was not sure why, but she suspected he was not telling her the whole truth, that he was hiding something. But, then, she was holding fast to a few secrets herself. She would welcome a rest after her ordeal as well as shelter from the rising sun, but she would not openly admit to that. Sheltering from the sun for a large part of the day had been one habit that had marked her, and her family, as different, stirring whispers of witchery and Satan. Not everyone had swallowed the lie that it was because the women of her family were so fair; the sun easily burned them. Una doubted this man would believe it.

The man reined in his mount and Una looked around. It took her a moment to see the opening in the rocky hillside. Her rescuer planned for them to seek their rest within a cave. Her mind sought fruitlessly for a decision about what step to take next. Go with the man into the cave or try to flee. The laird’s men were nowhere in sight, but she needed rest and shelter. It was not a need she could ignore for much longer, not if she was going to have the strength needed to go on. She struggled to make up her mind as he dismounted, and idly noticed that he kept the reins clasped tightly in his hand.

Then she looked into his dark brown eyes and all clarity of thought fled. Thickly lashed, set beneath straight dark brows, they were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen on a man. There were faint specks of amber decorating that dark brown that fascinated her. The way he looked at her with both amusement and understanding touched something deep inside her, something soft and womanly. Una abruptly realized that she had a lot more to worry about than whether or not this man was truly her rescuer.

Chapter Two

Raibeart needed only one look at her beautiful face to know that Una was ready to bolt. He was not sure what he could do to calm her fears, to win at least enough of her trust that she would come into the cave with him. A quick glance at the sky told him that he did not have long to accomplish that before he had to seek shelter from the sun, with or without her.

He knew horses not women. Unlike many of his brethren, he had little experience with women. He was renowned throughout his clan for his skill with horses, however, and being able to make almost any horse accept and trust him despite the scent of the predator he knew he carried. Raibeart was proud of that, but at the moment, he heartily wished he had learned more about women. He doubted that a few pats on Una’s flank, soft words, and a handful of oats would calm the wary-eyed woman still seated on Tor.

“Come, we need to rest and this place will be safe and easily defended,” he said.

“I do not need to rest,” she said, knowing it was a lie, for her entire body ached for rest. The way he cocked one dark brow told her that he knew it was, too. “It would be best if I just continued on.”

“To where?”

Una silently cursed, wishing he had not asked that question. She had no idea where she would go. All she knew was that she needed help, an ally who would assist her in freeing the others held hostage by the laird. Instinct told her that she could trust this man, that he could prove to be the very ally she had been looking for, but Una had tasted the bitterness of betrayal too often to trust in her own instincts.

“I can find a place when I need to,” she said. “I am nay helpless.”

“Ah, nay, ye certainly are nay helpless.” He smiled. “Took five men and a long hard run to corner you.”

The approval in his deep rough voice stroked her vanity in a pleasant way, but she tried to ignore that. “Which proves that I can take care of myself.”

“Lass, I have no doubt ye can, but against five men? I could see that they were verra determined to catch you and didnae plan to be gentle in the doing of it. I heard them decry ye as a witch and ken weel the threat behind such accusations. I can see the bruises on your wee face and arms, see the hunger and weakness ye suffer. I also think ye have the wit to ken that those men willnae cease to hunt ye down, aye?”

“Aye,” she agreed and wondered why she did because it told him far too much about her situation.

“Then trust me, if only for a wee while. I swear that I mean ye no harm.” He held out his hand. “Share my poor shelter and mayhap ye will tell me why ye are being so avidly hunted.”

“I could be a murderer,” she said even as she clasped his hand and allowed him to help her dismount.

“Nay, I think not, and I will trust my instincts in that.”

It occurred to Una that Raibeart had as little reason to trust in her as she did in him. Less, actually. His instincts could be wrong as easily as hers could. She could be a murderer, one who used her smaller size as an excuse to creep up on a man at his weakest and cut his throat. She knew she would not hesitate to do so to that mad laird who had kept her prisoner and still held the others caged, not if she knew it would free them all. Sir Raibeart MacNachton might be big and strong, but he was also taking a very large risk. Not as great a one as she was, but still a risk. That realization eased some of her wariness.

Una was deep inside the cave before she realized she was looking around as if she could see easily in the dark, which she could, and she tensed with alarm. It was something she had always taken the utmost care to hide. A quick peek at Raibeart revealed him settling his mount in at the rear of the cave, moving about as if he, too, had no difficulty in seeing in the dark. Nor did he reveal, by look or action, that he had noticed her ease of movement.

The way he walked right to the hollowed-out, shallow pit in the middle of the cave, gathering wood from a pile in the back, made Una frown. His every step was sure and steady. Not only could he see well in the dark, this cave was very familiar to him, an obviously well-used shelter. She sat down opposite him as he worked to light a fire. She knew without asking that he was not doing so because he needed the light but because he wished some warmth or because he thought she needed the light.

Her heart began to pound with a rush of fear and excitement. Then she recalled that she had thought she had glimpsed fangs in his mouth when he had ridden to her rescue. Could he be one of the cursed, akin to her and the ones she hoped to save? Una rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms against her skirt as she frantically tried to decide what step she should take next. Ask him bluntly if he was one of the cursed or wait to see if there were more clues to be even more certain? She could not allow her desperate need for an ally to cause her to act with a dangerous haste.

“Did ye bring your whole larder with ye?” she asked after watching him chop a rabbit carcass into pieces, toss the pieces into a pot of water set over the fire, and then begin to chop up some leeks.

Raibeart grinned. “Nay, but I ne’er miss a chance to gather food as I travel.”

A smile, so fleeting he would have missed it if he had not been staring at her mouth like some lovesick fool, crossed her face, but the shadows quickly returned to her eyes. Raibeart had the oddest urge to tell her that he did not really need the meal he was making, that what he needed to survive flowed through that vein he could see pulsing faintly at the side of her long, graceful neck. He never felt such an urge. Every MacNachton learned the value of holding fast to such stark truths in the cradle. Something about Una Dunn made him reluctant to hide behind the lies that came so easily to him and all the others in his clan, the lies that meant survival.

“So, lass, why were those men trying to capture ye?” he asked as he searched through his pack for a few more things to add to his stew. The food might not provide him with what he needed to survive, but he had always had a liking for the taste of a hearty stew, for a lot of the foods Outsiders ate, in fact. “Nay because ye committed some crime. I cannae believe that.”

“Nay, I committed no crime.” She took a deep breath and considered what she could say that would help her decide if he was the ally she so desperately needed. “I am but different and their laird collects people who are different.”

He tensed as he tossed a few wild mushrooms into the pot, sensing a tension behind each of her words, as if she sought something from him even as she told him what he wanted to know. Raibeart thought back over the first few moments after they had entered the cave, the very dark cave, and a deep darkness he had sought to alleviate for her by making a fire. She had shown no hesitation in moving around in that thick dark, had not even revealed a hint of the fear most Outsiders had of such darkness. Then he recalled the feral noises she had made when she had been cornered by the men trying to chase her down, her grace and speed while running through the woods in the near dark of approaching dawn, and even the way she had curled her hands until her fingers were curved like the claws of an animal. He had dismissed the fleeting thought that she had MacNachton blood because she was so fair, but he now wondered if he had been wrong to do so.

“How are you different?” he asked in what he prayed was a gentle yet coaxing voice, a voice that would prompt her to be completely honest.

“Weel, I can see verra weel in the dark.” When he just nodded, his expression one of calm and interest, she gathered her courage and continued. “I am verra strong and fast for a lass, stronger and faster than many a mon even. I also heal very quickly if I am wounded, and I rarely get sick, even when all around me are felled by some fever.”

“And?” he pressed when she fell silent and just stared at him, her brilliant blue eyes glowing in the fire’s light, her unease so strong he could almost smell it on her skin.

“Is that nay enough? Why do ye think there is more?”

“I sense it. I could almost hear the and in your voice even though ye then ceased to speak. So, what else makes ye different ?”

“I have verra sharp teeth.”

Raibeart studied her for a full moment, adding up all that made her different, and then asked, “Sharp like these?” He smiled wide enough to reveal his fangs, which, although not lengthened by the scent of blood, were still very noticeable, and readied himself to catch her if she grew too afraid and tried to flee.

Una bit back a gasp. He did have fangs. She had not imagined seeing them. They were not as long as some beasts’, but much more sharp and deadly than any man’s teeth. When he closed his mouth, she looked into his eyes and saw no fear of her. He looked intensely curious and as if he ached to ask many more questions of her but hesitated, just as she did. There was only one thing left to reveal, one thing that could easily turn him against her or prove, beyond any further doubt, that she had stumbled upon someone burdened with the same curse she had been born with.

“Do ye like your meat barely seared?” she asked, unable to keep all of her rising fear, and hope, out of her voice.

“I do. And, because of these differences, ye think ye are what? Cursed? A witch as those men called you?”

“Nay, no witch, but, aye, I am cursed, as was my mother and her mother. Grandmother was the first of the women in our family to be burdened with this curse.”

“Ye are nay cursed, lass. S’truth, I think our families may have joined together at some time in the past. Do ye ken who sired your grandmother?” He frowned when she blushed.

“Nay. My grandmother was a bastard child. She told my mother that she was born of darkness and violence, that her sire appeared out of the night, took her mother by force, and then disappeared. He ne’er returned.”

“So, nay even a name for her mother to curse at.”

“Nay, but Grandmother said that her mother was terrified of the night from that time on and that, when she realized the child born of that night was cursed, she wept. I gather from Grandmother’s tales that the woman wept a lot. But she eventually wed a good mon and Grandmother did as weel. The curse has waned some.”

“ ’Tis nay a curse.” Raibeart sighed when he caught the glint of fear in her eyes, for he knew he had nearly snarled the words at her. “What did your grandmother eat and could she bear the light of day?” He could see her fear in her eyes, and it was even a light scent upon the air, but he did not know how to ease it. “Nay, dinnae fear. I willnae condemn ye for the truth. ’Tis verra important to me that ye tell me the full truth.”

“Blood,” she whispered. “Grandmother drank the blood of any slaughtered animal, and she couldnae step outside once the sun rose, but spent the day in the darkest part of the cottage.”

“She was of my clan then. She carried MacNachton blood.”

“Are ye saying that your whole clan is cursed?”

“ ’Tis. Nay. A. Curse.”

Una lightly bit her bottom lip to suppress the sudden urge to smile. The way he bit out those four words and scowled at her should have frightened her, but it did not. Not even a little.

“Then what do ye call it?” she asked. “I cannae think it some wondrous gift or blessing, nay when it stirs others into a dangerous fear, causing them to decry one as a witch.”

Raibeart sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Nay, although it should be seen as a gift. There has to be some good reason for the MacNachtons to be what they are.”

“But ye dinnae ken what that good reason is yet, do ye?”

“Nay, but that doesnae matter now. What matters is that ye are of our blood, our kin, a MacNachton. Our laird has been sending us out to hunt for ones like you. Our ancestors were a brutal lot, arrogant in their strength and power. For a long time they harried all the nearest villages, taking what they needed or wanted. There are still whispers about them, tales of the Nightriders used to keep the bairns close to home at night. It was recently that we were shown that they had left behind more than pain, destruction, and dark tales. We found ones of our blood, ones bred of that dark time, and now we search for more of them. We call them the Lost Ones.”

“How could ye nay ken that bairns could have been born of such raids, of the taking of the women?”

“Because MacNachtons breed few children. Our laird believes that is because we have been too much alone, breeding only amongst our own kind. That begins to change.”

He looked at her, studying her expression closely but seeing only curiosity and just a hint of disbelief. The latter was no surprise. The truth about his people was difficult for most Outsiders to believe, and she had been raised as an Outsider.

“But that is of no importance now,” he continued. “What matters now is what ye were running away from and whether that trouble has aught to do with the MacNachtons.” He handed her his wineskin. “Drink this. It will make ye grow stronger.”

It took but one taste for Una to know that the wine was enriched with blood. She almost tossed it aside, her fear of revealing her dark hunger to anyone deep and old. Her body demanded the sustenance, however. She drank deeply, her injured body welcoming the needed nourishment, and then handed the wineskin back to him.

“And now tell me your tale so that we may ken the best way to free ye of the trouble dogging your heels,” he said.

“I escaped in the hope of helping the others who are still held prisoner at Dunmorton,” she said. “My plan was to find someone to help me free the others, but something went wrong, for I was not gone from the place for very long before the laird’s men were fast on my heels.”

“Mayhap one of the other prisoners told them.”

“Nay. They all ken that they are trapped until they die unless someone helps them. And they all ken that nothing they do will gain them any ease from their torment or mercy.”

“Why?”

“The laird began merely hunting ones like us for sport, killing us, or sending us to another who undoubtedly killed us. He caught poor Allana and decided he would rape her first. They fought, for Allana is no meek lass, but she lost that battle. In the fight, however, the laird swallowed some of her blood. It healed the wounds she had given him and made him feel stronger, younger even than his fifty years.”

She frowned. “Considering how he looked when I first set eyes on him, he must have had a hard life or lives hard and unwisely, for he looked far older than that.” She shrugged. “I think Allana was saved from execution at first simply because he wished to abuse her a few more times, but he quickly saw that she might have more use than as a reluctant leman. He did not need much time to discover that he was right, that Allana’s blood healed him, made him stronger, and he began to make potions of it to share with the five men closest to him.” She nodded toward his wineskin. “Much like ye have in there. Then he sent his men out to find more of us. He now has eight, aside from myself, and he keeps us caged, attempting to abuse the women and bleeding all of us for his potions so often that we are all weakened by it.”

“He raped all of the women? He raped you?” Raibeart had a fierce need to get his hands around the man’s neck.

“Nay, only Allana, Nan, and Mora, and, although he still attempts it from time to time, he no longer can do it. Allana told us not to fight him, that he needs a woman to show fear, to fight, before he can become man enough to take her. Nan and Mora still fought but quickly learned not to. Madeleine is able to swoon at will so was ne’er even taken away.”

“And you?”

“I dinnae ken why, but he fears me. I am but beaten now and then. And he may share his potion with his men but nay the women.”

The man needed to die, Raibeart thought as he fought against a surge of mind-searing rage. “That makes five. You said there were eight aside from yourself. The other four?”

“Two youths, Bartram and Colla, and two children. Two wee lasses. Joan who is six and Alma who is five.”

“He takes the blood of children?”

“Aye. Do ye see why I must find an ally?”

“Ye have found one.”

Una’s relief was so fierce it made her head spin. “Thank ye. We can leave for Dunmorton as soon as the sun sets.”

“Nay.”

Chapter Three

Una wondered if one’s heart could stop when assaulted by such a rapid, fierce change in emotion. She had been so relieved, almost elated, when he had declared himself her ally only to be struck by a crushing grief and disappointment when he said nay to going after the others. Her mind, filled with plans to save her fellow prisoners, was now empty. She was unable to gather the thread of a single thought.

Raibeart watched all color leave the woman’s face and cursed himself for not softening that nay. “You misunderstand me. I am your ally, lass, but we cannae save the others on our own. Two people cannae storm the laird’s wee castle and take away eight people who are undoubtedly weakened by what they have suffered, nor protect them as we flee the place.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. For a moment, as she regained some calm, she thought over all he had said. He was right. Two people could not rescue the others alone. Even if they could get inside the keep, defeat the guards without an alarum sent out, and free the prisoners, getting that many people out safely, including two small children, would be impossible. Una knew that would be true even if all the prisoners were in good health, and they were not.

“I ken how to slip in and out of the keep,” she said, reluctant to leave the others at Dunmorton for any reason, even one as sensible as getting more help.

“And do ye nay think they now ken that?”

“I am nay sure they do. There is more than one way to get in and out unseen. The one I used was old, verra old, and I dinnae think it has been used by this laird. Mayhap his father or his grandfather, but nay him.”

“How did ye find it?”

“I wasnae a verra weel-behaved prisoner.” She gave him a brief, narrow-eyed glare when he grinned at her, even as her heart gave an odd little skip at the way the smile illuminated his handsome face. “Thrashing me didnae change that.” She nodded when his grin abruptly disappeared into a scowl. “I was made to scrub the filth from the walls and floors of the dungeon, clean the cages, scrub the ragged clothes and blankets we were allowed, empty the slops, and all of that.”

“All the filthiest work.”

“Aye, for I had revealed a need to remain as clean as I could despite the rough conditions of my imprisonment. So, one of the times I was scrubbing away I found the opening to a tunnel.”

He served her a bowl of stew. “Were ye nay guarded as ye worked?”

“Oh, aye, but nay closely. The men guarded the ways out. At least the ones they kenned about.”

“Ah, and they were nay guarding that particular opening.”

Una took one bite of stew and realized how hungry she was. It was not going to be easy to retain the good manners her mother had taught her, not while filling her empty belly and trying to tell Sir Raibeart all she knew of Dunmorton. The amusement revealed in his midnight eyes told her that he recognized her dilemma. Una decided she would just ignore that and do her best. She was too hungry and too eager to tell him everything to be concerned about embarrassing herself.

“Nay, they ne’er came near it though I lurked round it many times,” she said between bites of stew. “I decided that they didnae ken it was there and, if they didnae, then neither did the laird.”

Raibeart nodded as he filled his mouth with stew. It was not the tastiest stew he had ever made, but it would serve to fill her stomach and help her regain her strength. Una probably needed such food since she was not a Pureblood. Most of the Lost Ones they had found revealed a need for both Outsider food and blood, their need of the latter much less than a Pureblood’s but still there.

“How could ye be certain it was a tunnel that would lead ye out of the dungeon?” he asked.

“I couldnae be certain but couldnae think of what else it might be. It was verra weel hidden behind old ale kegs and one of the cages, so I kenned that I just needed one wee chance to explore it, one short time where I could slip in and out of it unseen by the guards. It took a fortnight before the guards ceased to watch me all the time. Allana was in the cage next to mine, and when we were left alone at night, she and I tried to think of ways to make certain the guards were thoroughly distracted, and for long enough, to allow me to make certain it was a tunnel I could use.”

“What did ye decide on?”

“Allana and Madeleine decided they would fight. They are in cages next to each other. The laird had the cages built just to hold us, and only the bairns are caged together. He doesnae want any of the rest of us together.” She realized she had finished her stew and was just thinking of asking for more when he took her bowl and refilled it.

“Nay, I can understand that. He kens your strengths,” he said as he handed her back the bowl. “Two of ye could cause him and his men a great deal of trouble. It would be a lot more dangerous for his men to e’en open the cage door.”

“I thought that was the way of it, too,” she said between bites. “Wee Alma took a piece out of his leg when he stepped into the bairns’ cage to take their blood. He sends two men in there now.”

Raibeart waited until she had nearly finished the second bowl of stew before asking, “So Allana and Madeleine held the attention of the guards?”

“They did. They started arguing, hurling insults that had the guards all laughing and urging them on. Then the guards yanked Allana from her cage and threw her into Madeleine’s. They wanted to watch the women really battle each other. Allana had said they would, but I was still surprised to see that she was right.”

“Two lasses tussling, skirts flying up, legs bared, mayhap a bodice ripped away? Aye, men would watch.” He grinned when she gave him a look rife with feminine disgust. “So was there a tunnel you could use?”

“There was, which is why I am here now. It was easy to see that it had not been used for many years, but it was still passable and it led to a place near the edge of the burn that runs along the south side of the keep. I moved as fast as I could, getting in and out quickly, but it was still a very close run race. The guards were already dragging a cursing Allana back to her cage.”

“Why did ye nay just flee when ye had the chance? Why risk them seeing ye coming back into the dungeon?”

“I couldnae leave the others. I needed to talk with Allana and the rest before I did try to leave them. There might have been some way for all of us to flee, even though I hadnae seen one. Nay when there are always four guards and only I was let free of the cage.” She set her empty bowl down and sighed. “I hated to leave them. I am certain they will suffer for it.”

“Ye were their only hope of getting help. Are ye certain none of them are the reason those men found ye so quickly?”

“Verra certain. I am also certain they didnae find the way I got out, either. I should have had enough time to get clear of the area, for the women were going to distract the guards again and, as I said, they didnae watch me all that closely, for they were guarding the only ways out as far as they kenned. The fools probably think I made some spell. Either my absence was discovered far too soon or someone caught sight of me as I slipped out of the bolt-hole near the burn. There was a cleared area I needed to cross. And there is always the chance that the laird or some of his men chose that time to come down for more blood and realized I was gone when they began to dismiss the guards. They ne’er let the guards stay when they come for blood.”

“And ye are certain ’tis only the laird and his five closest men who ken about the blood?”

She nodded and idly rubbed her cheek. “The laird doesnae trust anyone. I am nay sure he even fully trusts those five men. And once he discovered our blood could heal him, strengthen him, I believe he even ceased to trust the one he used to send our kind to. He must believe that that mon had already learned the secret and wasnae sharing it with any of the others who hunt our kind down.”

“ ’Tis likely he is right to think that. What of the other people of Dunmorton?”

“Some bad, some good, just as it is in most places. There are nay so verra many of them for the land is poor and the laird rules with a harsh hand. Many have left to try to find a better life elsewhere, even his two sons. The laird liked to boast on how he would probably still be hale and strong when his ungrateful whelps died of old age.”

“So, there may only be six men we will need to kill.”

Una stared at him in surprise. The cold, firm tone of his voice told her he meant every word he said. In the flickering light of the fire, he looked predatory, all the soft amiability gone from his features. It should have frightened her to see him like that, but Una realized she was comforted. After being alone and frightened for so long, she had finally found a strong ally. He would do whatever was necessary to protect her and help her friends.

“Are ye certain they must be killed?” she asked although she believed the laird and his men deserved whatever fate Raibeart dealt them. “We could just steal the prisoners and slip away.”

“I fear the men ken too much. We have only just discovered that our blood can heal Outsiders ourselves. This is a secret that cannae be allowed to be told.”

“Outsiders?”

“Those who are nay of MacNachton blood. Our laird decided that we were dying, no bairns born to the clan for many, many years. Not amongst the Purebloods. He was born of an Outsider and a Pureblood. He also realized it isnae so easy for us to stay hidden at Cambrun anymore, that the world outside its walls is growing, secrecy becoming more difficult to maintain. For our own survival as a people, we had to begin to look outside the clan for wives. He found one and both his sons can tolerate a lot of sun. He thought we could breed out most of what makes us so different and feared, but the Lost Ones are showing us that it may ne’er all go away.”

“Nay. And it can come back a wee bit now and then. ’Tis stronger in me than it was in my mother.” A fresh pang of grief struck her when she thought of her family’s deaths. “I wish I had kenned that my blood could heal. I might have been able to save my family.”

“How did they die?”

“A fever.”

”It may have helped, but ye cannae be certain, and we who have lived with what we are for hundreds of years didnae ken what our blood could do for others until recently. Ye couldnae have helped them when ye didnae ken how.”

Una nodded. “I ken that. It just hurt for a wee moment. What do we do now?”

“We rest and then we go to Cambrun,” Raibeart replied as he moved to lie out his bedding.

“How far away is Cambrun?”

“Three nights’ ride if all goes weel.”

“Then, at the verra least, it will be over a sennight before I can rescue the others.”

“At least. It willnae take us long to plan our attack for, since finding the first of the Lost Ones, we are always at the ready to ride out. The only thing that slows us down is that most of us still need to shelter from the sun. That is a weakness I will be verra pleased to see bred out.”

“Ye cannae abide any sun, can ye?” Una was weary but could see that he had only enough bedding for one, and she was not looking forward to sleeping on the hard rock floor of the cave.

“Verra little. We all have heavy cloaks so that we may ride or go out in the early morning or at the end of the day, but I am a Pureblood and the sun is poison to me. ’Tis as if it slowly draws the life right out of me.”

“I have felt the same when caught out in the middle of the day.” She frowned as she thought of the ones still trapped at Dunmorton. “I think some of the other prisoners may have a stronger dose of MacNachton blood than I do. The bairns say they cannae abide the sun much past the dawn. So the weakness your laird tries to breed out appears determined to linger in the blood.”

“Or they are the get of one of our men who went awan-dering and ne’er returned. Some go looking for a mate but find only death, too often betrayed by the verra woman they thought was their mate.”

Una wanted to question that word mate but yawned instead. With her belly full for the first time in far too long and the blood-rich wine she had drunk healing and strengthening her, her body now demanded rest from the ordeal she had suffered. She knew she needed sleep to continue to regain the strength she would need to help the others, but she wished she had had the chance before fleeing Dunmorton to grab a few supplies, especially a blanket. The hard rock floor was sure to leave her with a few new aches in her battered body.

“Ye can share my bedding,” said Raibeart as he set aside his boots, placed his weapons close at hand, and stretched out on the bedding. “There is room.”

Even though there was the fire between them, Raibeart watched her tense and lean away from him. She may not have suffered rape at the laird’s hands, but she had no trust in men. Her beauty guaranteed that she had been the victim of unwanted attentions, especially if she had been alone and unprotected for any length of time. There were too many men out there who had no respect for women and little care, thinking it their right to take what they wanted even if the woman did not want to give it. Una Dunn was going to be a difficult woman to woo, he mused, and he now had every intention of wooing her.

It would amuse his friends and family to know how hard and fast he had fallen. Her grace and beauty had caught his eye first, but that was no surprise. Una was a woman made to catch a man’s eye. It was what he had learned of her as they had talked that had grabbed hold of his heart and would not let go. Her loyalty to her fellow prisoners, her need to free them at any cost to herself, her clever escape, and her courage all drew him to her. He could only hope she would see something worthy in him in time.

“I willnae touch ye, lass,” he said and then smiled. “Wheesht, in a wee bit I will be as near to dead as any mon can be anyway, at least until the sun begins to set.”

“Ye sleep that deeply?” she asked, wrestling with the urge to take that next step in trusting him and sharing that much more comfortable sleeping space.

“Near to. Come, ye will be safe with me. I swear it on my life.”

Una cautiously approached him. She remained tense and wary as she sat down to remove her boots. It was frightening to be so close to such a big man even though she was inclined to believe in his promises. She was still a maid, but she had fought hard, too many times, to stay that way. Nor had she ever found a man she trusted enough to allow him to know her secrets. Raibeart knew what she was for he was the same. It was enough for her to trust him in some things, but not all. She kept her body tense, ready for flight, as she settled down on the bedding, keeping as much space between their bodies as possible. When he tucked the blanket over her, she stared at him in surprise, for the way he did it was gentle, almost tender.

“Ye are akin to one of the horses I train to accept MacNachtons,” he said as he turned onto his side to watch her. “Skittish, wary, wanting to trust all while ye want to run.”

She blinked, uncertain as to whether she was amused or insulted to be compared to his horses. “Ye are comparing me to a horse?”

“I ken horses. Dinnae ken people as weel, especially women. But, I mean to teach ye that ye can trust me, trust my clan. I mean to calm your fears, to show ye that the beast ye scent in me will ne’er hurt you.”

“Why?”

“Because I mean to woo you.” He kissed her on the cheek and then turned so that his back was to her.

Woo me? Una touched her cheek. The spot his lips had touched burned and that warmth seeped through her body. She may have found herself an ally, but Una began to think that she had also stumbled into a lot of trouble.

Chapter Four

I mean to woo you.

Una glared at Raibeart’s broad back as they rode through the forest. He had kissed her cheek again to wake her up. As before, he had quickly moved away from her after kissing her, this time to prepare some food before they began the journey to Cambrun. By the time she recovered from the shock of being kissed, he was well out of reach and acting as if he had done nothing unusual.

She knew that part of her anger was born of how that innocent touch of his lips on her skin made her feel. Warm. Safe. Womanly. He was trying to calm her just like one of his cursed horses, she thought. Instead of a pat on the flank, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. Instead of an apple or handful of oats, he fed her stew and porridge sweetened with honey.

What truly annoyed her was that it was working, and quickly. Una could not believe she could be so easily wooed, but she was. The proof that Raibeart obviously did not know the first thing about truly wooing a woman only worked in his favor. No man who was trying to trick her, or seduce her, would be so inept at it. She could actually feel a softening inside her when she looked at him, a warmth that had little to do with the fact that he was big, strong, and handsome.

It was going to be difficult to resist him, she realized. Even now, with her arms around his waist, he occasionally patted her hands where they were clasped over his taut stomach. Soothing her again, she thought, just as he did Tor with an occasional pat on the animal’s strong neck, and almost grinned. Most women would be outraged to be treated by a man in the same way he treated his horses, but Una had to admit that she was finding it strangely endearing.

I mean to woo you.

And what was so wrong with that, she wondered. The voice of common sense quickly answered. She did not really know the man aside from the fact that he was like her and that he was ready to help her save the others held at Dunmorton. They had known each other for only a day and that had been spent mostly in sleep. It was ridiculous to think of him in any way save as an ally, a man who was going to help her save her friends. She could not allow her innocent girlish dreams of a lover—a husband, a home, and children—make her act recklessly. She certainly should not contemplate giving away her innocence just because a man kissed her on the cheek, not after fighting so hard to hold fast to it for years.

Raibeart suddenly tensed, pulling her out of her thoughts. “What is it?” she asked in a whisper.

“Hunters,” he replied in an equally soft voice.

“The ones who are after me?” She waited as he sniffed the air, not surprised that he would have a keen sense of smell.

“Aye, and they are mounted now.”

“Stand and fight?” She touched the hilt of the knife he had given her, which was now sheathed at her side, yet another of his gestures that warmed her heart in a dangerous way.

“Nay, not unless we have no choice.” He cocked his head and listened carefully. “Six men. The laird must ken our weakness, for ’tis unusual for Outsiders to go on a hunt at night.”

“He trains men to do so.”

“So do the others who hunt us.”

She glanced up at the moon glinting through the trees. “A clear sky and a fat moon dinnae help us much, either. So we hide?”

“Aye, we hide.”

Una hung on tightly as he wound his way through the trees, using as much speed as he dared. She had not planned much beyond finding an ally and cursed herself for a fool. She should have considered the fact that she would be hunted, that she would put anyone who helped her into danger. Raibeart was big and strong, with speed and natural weapons, but he was still one man against six. The men after them also knew the strengths of the ones they hunted and would not be easily caught off guard.

“I have put ye in danger,” she said, guilt a hard knot in her belly.

Raibeart grunted softly. “MacNachtons have always been in danger. E’en more so since these hunters have caught wind of us. I dare nay think on how many Lost Ones were murdered ere we learned of them or I would weep like a bairn. All ye have asked of me is to help ye save eight people with MacNachton blood, and I ne’er thought it would be a simple matter of rapping at the door of that mad laird’s keep and asking for the prisoners to be released.”

The man could put a nice bite behind his words, she thought, and smiled. Her good humor fled quickly, however. If the laird’s men had found their trail already, it could be a long, harrowing ride to Cambrun. A long ride with a lot of chances for a dangerous confrontation.

He reined in at a place deep in the shadows of a thick cluster of trees. “We will wait here to see if they still follow us.”

“But they could pass by us and then be in front of us. Would that nay be worse?” she asked.

“Nay. If they have followed us, then I have just succeeded in leading them away from the path we need to take to get to Cambrun. We will but slip back round them and ride hard for a wee while.”

Una pressed her cheek against his back. She liked clinging to him far too much for her own peace of mind, but that was not enough to get her to stop doing it. It felt good to be pressed so close to him, good in a way that was both exciting and a little frightening. He even smelled good, she thought, and then rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. She began to think that no woman was safe from the risk of growing foolish over a man.

Raibeart was peering out into the dark. Una did the same but suspected his vision was far more acute than hers. She had no doubt that at least a few deaths would mark their trail before they reached Cambrun. All she could do was pray that neither Raibeart nor she would be one of them.

She tensed when the hunting party rode into view. The five men who had been chasing her when Raibeart had rescued her were there, but it was the sixth man who made her blood run cold. It was Angus, a man called Death by the other men at Dunmorton, although never to his face. He was big, strong, and lethal. Even more dangerous than that, he was an excellent tracker, deadly with a blade, and cunning. He was not a man it would be easy to lose.

It felt like hours before the hunters rode away, even though she knew it was only minutes. Una had kept expecting Angus’s cold gray eyes to fix upon them, for a knife to bury itself in Raibeart’s heart. Angus was one of the laird’s best hunters and knew how to bring down ones with MacNachton blood. She did not feel all that relieved when they left their hiding place to ride around the hunters and head for Cambrun. Una could swear she felt Angus’s cold gaze on her back, the spot between her shoulder blades itching in warning.

“Why are ye so afraid?” Raibeart asked. “Ye were trembling. Still are a wee bit.”

“Angus was there. He was the sixth mon. He is an expert hunter.”

“The big red-haired mon with the cold eyes?”

“Aye. He willnae lose our trail for long. He led the men who caught every one of us, the ones the laird sent away and the ones he still holds. He isnae one of the laird’s five favored men, but he is close. Verra close.”

“Do ye think he kens the secret about our blood?”

“I couldnae say. ’Tis possible. He spends a lot of time with the laird and his chosen men.” She pressed her forehead against his back. “What Angus is, is a coldhearted killer. He kens enough about us to ken ways to hurt or kill us without risking himself much. I swear, if he didnae have the kiss of the sun so clear to see on his face, I would think him one of us. He is that good at hunting us.”

“Dinnae fret, lass.” He patted her clenched hands. “A MacNachton is nay so easy to bring down, and I suspicion that mon has ne’er faced a Pureblood.”

“I think I heard a touch of arrogance behind those words,” she murmured. “Ye are stronger, aye?”

“Stronger, faster, and more lethal. And, more importantly, verra hard to kill. Ye heal fast, aye?” He felt her nod against his back. “I heal faster. Ye will soon ken exactly what breed ye descend from, so trust me when I tell ye that I can rip the throat out of one mon and be doing the same to another ere the first one hits the ground.” He waited tensely for her reaction to that hard truth.

Una was shocked, even more so when she realized that those words did not frighten her. In fact, her first clear thought was that, if she and the others had had the skills of the Purebloods they were descended from, they would never have been caught and caged. She slowly became aware of how tense Raibeart was and realized he was braced for her disgust or rejection. Despite all her efforts to remain sensible about the man, her heart softened and she lightly hugged him.

“I think there is a lot I need to learn about what I am,” she said and smiled against his back when his chest moved with a sigh of relief.

Twice more they had to elude the hunters, and Una was bone weary by the time they sought shelter from the rising sun. This time Raibeart took her to a small shepherd’s shelter, well hidden behind trees and shrubs. He secured his horse, fed and watered the animal, and led her through a trapdoor in the floor to a shelter below the hut.

“Now I understand why a poor shieling had a wooden floor beneath the dirt,” she murmured. “Does your clan have such places scattered everywhere across the land?”

“In as many places as we can,” he answered. “Each time one of our men weds a lass with lands, we add even more. This is a poor place and we cannae have a fire, so I fear ’tis naught but wine, oatcakes, and cheese for ye this time.”

“Ye keep feeding me,” she said as she sat down on the blanket he spread out and accepted the food.

“I suspicion food has been scarce for ye for quite a while.”

“Certainly since I was captured. The laird wants us kept weak but nay so weak he cannae take our blood when he pleases.” She tensed briefly when he sat down beside her and draped his arm across her shoulders.

“Each thing ye tell me about that madmon only adds to my need to kill him,” said Raibeart, the cold promise of death clear to hear in his deep, rough voice. “The worst of his sins being that he treats bairns with such cruelty.”

Una nodded as she ate, deciding she would just try to ignore what was almost an embrace. The way the laird and his men fed off the poor children like greedy leeches made her stomach churn. She lived in constant dread that the men would kill the little girls, weaken the children so much that they could not recover. The men took far too much blood and gave them far too little food and water to help them recover from the loss. The suffering of the children was one thing that had made all the others agree that she needed to risk escape from the dungeon.

“Aye, he should die for that alone.” She looked at him. “For a wee while I was sickened by the thought that I was like him, for did I nay need the blood of another from time to time just to survive?”

“Nay, ye . . .” he began, but stuttered to a halt when she held up her hand.

“I decided I was wrong to think that way, began to look hard at the differences. He and his men dinnae need that blood to survive; they just want it to make themselves more powerful. I then learned that the others were shamed, too, thinking much the same as I did. I spent a lot of time convincing them that they were nothing like those leeches, and, in doing so, convinced myself.” More or less, she thought, but shook the lingering hint of doubt aside. “I dinnae ken how ye, who are purer of blood, do it, but I, and the others, take mostly animal blood and only now and then. We would ne’er keep people like cattle, feeding off them and nay even trying to be certain that they had what was needed to survive. He isnae worried that he is slowly killing us. He will just hunt down more, aye? That is why he must die, that greed for power and that callousness toward the very people he is stealing it from.”

“Purebloods dinnae kill to feed the hunger. In truth, many of us also use animal blood,” he said. “It suffices most of the time. I cannae say we were so noble in the past, but it has been a verra long time since we killed for blood, long enough that the tales of those darker times are but whispered tales told to bairns to keep them from roaming outside at night or to cause the timid to shudder.”

He reluctantly pulled away from her to spread out the pallet for sleeping. It was enough that she had not pushed him away when he had put his arm around her. Raibeart quickly pushed aside all thought of how perfect she had felt tucked up against his side. It stirred his hunger for her, one that grew fiercer with every moment he spent in her company. That would be difficult to hide once they were bedded down together, and it could easily bring back all her wariness around him.

“It is going to be a long, dangerous ride to Cambrun, isnae it?” Una said once she and Raibeart were tucked under the blanket.

“Ye dinnae think they will give up and go back to Dunmorton ?” He turned on his side to look at her.

“Angus doesnae give up, and the others are too afraid of him to do so if he demands they keep on hunting us.”

“Then, aye, the journey to Cambrun could be a troublesome one, but we will get there. Others have done so with hunters hard on their heels. It was the hunters who died, nay the MacNachtons or the Lost Ones they were saving.”

“Such arrogance,” she murmured but smiled, for his confidence actually calmed her fears.

“Aye, the MacNachtons are an arrogant lot.” He lightly stroked her thick braid draped over the shoulder closest to him. “A mon needs to ken his strengths weel or he isnae at his best in a fight. We may have this weakness that causes us to have to hide from the sun, but we also have many strengths and we learn young how to use them. Ye have some, but, I think, ye have always done your best to hide them away and never learned how best to use them against your enemy.”

Una frowned and then nodded. He was right. She had used her strengths in times of danger, but in a wild, panicked way, not with any true skill. Nor had any of her fellow prisoners who were still held captive. They lashed out wildly, as she did, and such an unskilled attack was probably easy to plan against.

“Ye could teach me how to use those strengths,” she said, seeing the way he stroked her braid when she turned her head to look at him, but finding she was unable to protest the touch, as she knew she should.

“I can and I will.” He could feel the need to sleep creeping over him and knew the chance to take the next step in his wooing would soon be lost. “And I will. We can start as soon as the sun sets,” he promised and then kissed her.

Although he did not rush at her like some untried youth, Raibeart moved quickly enough that she had no time to protest. Her small hands slapped against his chest, but she did not push him away, and he did not try to press his body any closer to hers. Her mouth was soft and sweet, the taste of her one he already craved, but he tightly leashed his hunger for more than the innocent closed-mouth kiss he gave her. When he lifted his head, he winked at her before lying back down and turning his back to her. This time it was not just to avoid any recriminations or arguments but also to hide his arousal. For once he was glad of the way he could not easily deny the need to sleep as the sun rose.

Una stared at Raibeart’s back and touched her mouth with trembling fingers. She could still feel the heat of his mouth against hers and her heart was pounding, but not with fear. It occurred to her that she might have misjudged Raibeart. The man might well know a thing or two about wooing after all.

Chapter Five

“This is a crypt.”

Raibeart looked at Una and almost grinned at the way she scowled at the effigy of a knight that topped a large stone coffin. She did not appear afraid, but she was definitely not pleased by his choice of shelters. After two nights of hiding from and eluding hunters and sleeping in shelters that were little more than holes in the ground, he was pleased to be in a large place with stone walls and a floor. He suspected she would grow less dismayed when he showed her the place where she could actually take a bath. It was one reason he always sought this shelter when traveling this particular path to and from Cambrun.

“Aye,” he said. “There isnae much left of the wee stone chapel that used to cover it, though.”

“I noticed.” She realized she had seen no house, no keep or peel tower. “Whose is it?”

“A wee part of the Chisholm Clan used it. The family who built this and tended the lands here died long ago. Plague took them all, and the few shepherds or villagers who survived went elsewhere. I suspicion many fled once the first person fell ill with the plague. Naught left here but these old bones and ruins.” He walked up to her and lightly tugged on her braid when she frowned. “And, nay, ye willnae catch the plague by staying here.”

Una grimaced at her own foolish fears, more so at the fact that Raibeart had guessed them. “I ken it. ’Tis mostly that even the word plague is enough to make one tremble.”

“Weel, I ken of something that will please ye enough to take the fear away.” He took her by the hand and started to lead her toward the rubble-strewn rear of the crypt. “Trust me. Ye will like this.”

She was not quite sure what there could be to like in a house of the dead, but she did not resist his tug on her hand. It made her uncomfortable to be inside the crypt, but she did prefer it to where they had slept for the last two days. Those places had been enough to leave her with a fear of being buried alive.

The sound of water drew her attention just as Raibeart led her around a corner and into a smaller chamber. She gaped at what she saw. There was a deep hollow in the rock floor and water trickled down the stone wall to fill it. It was obvious there was some way for the water to escape the stone basin or the crypt would have been flooded long ago despite how slowly the water ran into the pool. A light cloud of mist hung over the pool. She tugged her hand free of Raibeart’s grasp, knelt beside the pool, and dipped her fingers into the water.

“ ’Tis warm,” she whispered in astonishment. “How can it be warm?”

“There are springs that can run warm, e’en hot, here and there.” Raibeart moved to the corner of the room where there were several bundles stacked on a rough wooden shelf. “We keep some supplies here.” He opened a bundle and held out a length of linen. “My clan stops here whenever they can and, I think, ’tis mostly because of the pool.”

“I can bathe in it?” Even as she asked, she stuck her arm down into the water, uncaring of how she soaked the sleeves of her gown, touching the stone at the bottom just as she reached her armpit. “It has an odd smell,” she murmured, taking a deep breath. “Nay bad, just a little odd.”

“We have decided that, whatever it is, ’tis verra soothing. Takes away the aches of a long ride.”

Una took the drying cloth from his hands, eager to bathe away the dust of their journey, but suddenly realizing she had a problem. “I dinnae have anything clean to put on after I bathe.”

“Between a drying cloth and one of these shirts someone left, ye could cover yourself decently enough. Then ye can wash out what ye wear now.”

Raibeart found himself pushed out of the room before he could say another word. He laughed softly and went to make a fire. It would be best if he kept busy or he would think too much on how close Una was, naked and in the warm water of the pool. He stopped and closed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of how close he was to all he craved to hold. It was going to be a very long day.

Una tossed aside her clothes and slid into the water, a sigh of pleasure escaping her. She sank in up to her chin, rested her head against the edge of the pool, and closed her eyes. Raibeart was right. The water might have an odd smell, but it soaked away every ache in her body.

The moment Raibeart came to mind, she thought of him sharing this pool with her, his fine, strong body as naked as her own. Una opened her eyes so quickly and widely they stung. Her heart was pounding and parts of her itched, ached even, at the mere thought of Raibeart naked. She could almost feel his skin against hers, feel him kissing her, touching her, and her body grew warm.

Just as it had when he had kissed her on the mouth the third day they rested, she thought. He had nipped at her bottom lip, causing her to part her lips, and had slipped his tongue into her mouth. The way he had stroked the inside of her mouth as he had pulled her body close to his had made her ache, in her breasts and between her legs. She had clung to him not only because she liked to touch him, but because her knees had actually grown too weak to hold her upright. It had been the same when he had kissed her when they had wakened. It was the same now and all she had done was think about it.

This was lust, she realized, and sat up, the sudden knowledge clearing the fog of fear and confusion from her mind. Una grabbed the small bowl of soap Raibeart had left her and the scrap of linen to wash with, and began to scrub herself clean as she thought over what she now knew. She had never lusted before and was not sure what to do about it. A maid did not just trot off to find someone to soothe that itch, not like a man would. And, Una knew only one man would do for her anyway. A man who was close at hand and was attempting to woo her.

“Curse it, just what does he mean by that?” she muttered. “Woo to his bed or woo to be his wife?”

Setting aside the cloth and putting a little soap in her hands, Una began to wash her hair. The way her body was so quickly enflamed by Raibeart’s kiss told her that her lust for him was a powerful thing. It would not take much more of his wooing before she found herself no longer a maid. What she needed to do was decide if she wished to allow that or if she should step away from him now, make it very clear to him that he could do no more wooing. She would stay a maid.

Why ? whispered a voice in her head and she had no answer. Why indeed? She was three and twenty and had been on her own, without home or family, for seven years. In all those years she could count the number of times she had felt safe or happy on the fingers of one hand. Raibeart made her feel both. There was also little chance that she would wed because of her differences so whom was she saving her maidenhead for? Should it not go to the one man in her whole life that made her feel safe, happy, and even beautiful?

Una grinned as she stepped out of the pool and dried herself, wrapping the damp cloth around her wet hair and then donning the shirt he had left for her. She wanted Raibeart and she could take what she wanted for once in her life. As she rinsed out her clothes and spread them out to dry on some of the rubble cluttering the room, she wondered exactly how she could do that. When she stood up to return to the large chamber, she suffered a pinch of uncertainty but shook it aside. Raibeart had shown that he wanted her, even said he intended to woo her. Whether he meant seduction or marriage no longer mattered. He was about to be claimed. She unwrapped her hair and used the cloth to rub it dry as she went hunting her prey.

Raibeart looked up as Una entered the chamber and he nearly choked. She was slowly rubbing her hair dry as she walked toward him. The shirt she wore hung to her knees, but he knew she wore nothing beneath it. Each time she raised her arms a little to rub her hair, the shirt slipped up to her thighs. His hands itched to touch all that smooth skin she was showing him. Instead he nodded and hurried out of the room to take his own bath. He just wished the water were cold.

The sight of her clothing draped over the scattered rocks did nothing to help him regain his calm. It reminded him all too clearly of the fact that all that stood between him and her beautiful skin was one thin shirt. He had always considered desire something a man could easily control, but he had no control around Una, his body demanding that he claim her every time he looked at her.

Raibeart shook his head as he shed his clothes and entered the pool. He was going to have to try harder. His wooing appeared to be working but, after all Una had suffered, he doubted she was ready for a man half blind with hunger for her.

By the time he was bathed and dressed in clean clothing, he was again in control of his desires. Then he stepped up to the small fire she sat near and she smiled at him. His body clenched tightly with the wanting he had just thought he had conquered. Gritting his teeth, he sat down beside her on the blanket she had spread out. Despite all his attempts to keep his gaze fixed on the flames, he was soon staring at her long, slim legs and clenching his fists to stop himself from touching them.

Una picked up Raibeart’s wineskin, turned to offer it to him, and grew very still. Raibeart was staring at her legs much as a starving man stared at any scrap of food. She wondered if there was something alarming about the MacNachton s he had not told her, and then told herself not to be so slack-witted.

She recognized that look on his face. The tightening of the lines of his face, the hint of color riding his high cheekbones. It was desire. She had seen it on a man’s face before. It was a look that had always preceded a flare of violence and then her running for her life. It was a look she had learned to read as a warning of danger. Now, seeing that look on Raibeart’s handsome face, everything within her read it as an invitation. Una was just not certain how she could answer it in a way that was not too brazen.

Still holding the wineskin, she shifted until she was kneeling, facing him. Her breath caught in her throat when his gaze met hers. His dark eyes had gone feral, lightening until they were more a dark amber than a brown so dark it was almost black. It did not frighten her, however. Instead, it stirred to life a hunger that rose rapidly to equal the one she could read in those beautiful predator’s eyes.

“Do ye wish a drink?” she asked, a little surprised at how low and husky her voice was.

“Aye.” Raibeart took the wineskin from her hand and set it on the floor, never once taking his gaze from her face. “I do. A deep one.”

He kissed her, and Una shivered, heat flooding through her body the moment his lips touched hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers through his hair, and held him close. The hunger she had seen in his eyes was revealed in his kiss. This was no gentle wooing. This was a man telling her that he wanted her, a man demanding that she give him what he needed.

It should have frightened her. Men had demanded before, had expected to be able to take what they wanted from her. It was why she had never settled anywhere since being driven from her family’s home. Each time she had tried, some man had thought she was free for the taking and tried to do just that despite her refusals. Una did not fear Raibeart. His demand did not make her want to fight him and run; it made her want to give, to share. She returned his kiss with a demand of her own.

Raibeart was close to shaking with the force of his need by the time he pushed Una down onto the blanket. He was not surprised to see the fine tremor in his hand as he began to unlace the shirt she wore, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, inhaling the scent of her, and becoming drunk on the taste of her. The voice of reason in his mind tried to warn him to go slow, to be certain that Una was ready to make love, but it took several minutes before he grasped enough control to heed it.

“Una,” he said as he gently tugged the shirt aside to expose her softly rounded shoulder, “ye have but a heartbeat or two to tell me nay, to stop me.”

“If I was going to say nay, I would have done so ere ye got me on my back,” she whispered and nipped his chin.

He laughed but it was a rough sound, more of a growl than anything else. “There will be nay going back.” Raibeart knew she would think he referred to her innocence, but he did not have the strength or the wit to explain what he really meant now.

“I ken that.”

Una placed her hands on his cheeks and tugged his mouth down to hers. She did not want to talk. Her mind was settled. She would have Raibeart, hold him close for as long as he allowed, and deal with the consequences of their heedlessness later.

When he tugged off the shirt she wore and tossed it aside, she could feel the heat of a blush sting her cheeks, neck, and chest. No man had ever seen her completely naked. Raibeart raised himself to his knees to tear off his clothing, and Una lost all concern over her own nudity. He was beautiful, all hard muscle and dark golden skin. She caught a quick look at his manhood, rising hard and long from a thatch of black curls, before he returned to her arms, but she pushed the image from her mind. That part of a man had represented a threat to her for far too long; she did not want the sight of it to chill the fire his touch had set blazing inside her.

The way he caressed her body with his large, calloused hands burned away the lingering uncertainty still lodged in her heart and mind. This was what she needed, what she wanted. When he followed the path of his hands with his mouth, she lost every ability to think at all, fierce desire grasping full control. Soft cries of delight escaped her as he kissed her breasts, whispered praises against them, suckled Una like a child, and slowly slipped his hand between her legs. Each caress brought her such pleasure she feared she would lose herself in it but could not bring herself to care.

A touch of unease nudged her mind when she felt him begin to join their bodies. “Raibeart?”

“I dinnae wish to hurt you,” he said.

The growl of the beast echoing in his words was but another spark added to the fire consuming her, and she wrapped her limbs around him. “Nature and God say ye must, so be quick about it.”

She had barely finished speaking when he thrust deep inside her, ending her innocence in little more than a heartbeat of time. A sharp pain tore through her insides, but she swallowed her cry. The pain was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. Una held Raibeart close, smoothing her hands over his broad back, his forehead resting against hers, and his gaze fixed upon her body as he caressed her, soothed her. She was filled with him, surrounded by the scent and the warmth of his strong body. Never had she felt so safe, so alive.

Raibeart kissed her and began to move, thrusting in and out of her with a steady, gentle rhythm that brought tears to her eyes. A tight knot of hot need formed low in her belly, and she began to match his strokes. The need grew more demanding, the pleasure carrying a hint of pain, and then something inside her broke. She called out his name as she tumbled into a torrent of intense pleasure so sweet, so beautiful she never wished it to end. His voice caressed her ears as he thrust into her several times, so fiercely that her body shifted along the floor, and he growled out her name in a voice that was barely human. A sharp pain on her neck turned into a searing delight, desire’s heat rushing through her body so strongly that she plunged into desire’s abyss for a second time. His strong body bucked against her, shuddering as a warmth bathed her womb, and then he collapsed on top of her, their heavy, panting breaths as perfect a match as their bodies.

It was a long time before Raibeart found the strength, and will, to move. He wanted to stay deep and warm inside Una’s body. It had been a struggle not to turn the bite he had given her into the mating bite, her blood so sweet and intoxicating he had nearly lost control. It was too soon and she deserved to choose him of her own free will. Raibeart finally eased their bodies apart and lifted his head from her full soft breasts to look at her.

“Are ye weel?” he asked.

“Ye bit me.” Una was unsettled over how much she had liked it.

“Aye. Mayhap I should have asked first, but I wasnae thinking verra clearly.”

That was very flattering, Una thought. She decided she had liked the bite too much to deny it, too. “I was just a wee bit surprised is all.”

“Ah, weel, then, I can tell ye that I mean to surprise ye a lot.”

Una grinned. “Do ye now?”

“I do, but ’tis best if ye get some rest now.”

Although painfully embarrassed when he cleaned them both off, she settled comfortably in his arms when he returned to their rough bed. Sleep tugged at her so firmly that she rested her cheek against the warmth of his chest and closed her eyes. She was just tumbling into the blackness of exhaustion when she thought she heard Raibeart say mine but could not rouse herself enough to ask him what he meant.

Raibeart looked at the woman curled up against him, her long dark lashes a soft crescent against her pale skin, and sighed. He was sated and content, but there was a tiny worm of unease in his heart. Una was his, but she had uttered no words of love, as he would have expected of an innocent who had just allowed a man to make love to her. Then again she had willingly given him that innocence. That had to mean something important. Instinct told him, however, that she was not fully his. Not yet. He had a fight ahead of him. Raibeart could only hope that it was not a long one. Now that he had shared such a fierce passion with Una, he had no intention of letting her go.

Chapter Six

“Try it again.”

Una opened one eye to look up at Raibeart. He stood over her, grinning widely, and she wished she had the strength left to kick him. Asking him to teach her how to use her MacNachton strengths to fight with some skill might not have been the best idea she had ever had, she decided.

“Nay,” she said. “I think I best save what little strength I have left for the ride ahead of us.”

Raibeart laughed, bent down to grasp her by her wrist, and pulled Una to her feet. “And we should be riding from here soon.” He tugged her into his arms. “Ye did weel. Verra weel. I think ye have a lot of MacNachton strengths but a lot of what our laird was hoping for as weel. Ye can mix with the Outsiders because ye can endure time in the sun and ye eat their food. A fine and helpful mix.”

“Ye eat their food, e’en cook it weel. S’truth, I think ye may cook with more skill than I do.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, loving the little freckles that marched across the bridge of that small straight nose. “I like the tastes but none of it will keep me alive. If I dinnae get blood, I slowly weaken and die. There is no escaping that dark hunger.”

“Ye could have some of mine,” she said, shocking herself with the offer. After being bled by that mad laird for so long, she was surprised she was able to offer even Raibeart her blood.

“Nay, lass. I am fine.” He brushed a kiss over her mouth. “And I had a wee sip this morning, aye?” He laughed when she blushed. “The wine is enough for me and I can get what I need when we get to Cambrun.”

“We should have been there by now, aye?”

“Aye, but it may weel be another two nights now because we have had to travel in such a winding path, trying to shake those cursed hunters from our heels.”

He could see her disappointment reflected in her eyes and he kissed her. Raibeart decided that kissing her was a craving he had no wish to control. The way she tasted, the way her passion rose so quickly to meet his and warm him, was not something any man could resist. When he ended the kiss, he looked into her eyes and the shadows were gone again. What had replaced them, however, was a wanting so strong and so hot, he nearly pushed her right back down on the ground so that he could bury himself deep inside her.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly in a vain attempt to cool the searing need he had for her, Raibeart said, “We will free the others, Una. Aye, it would be verra fine if we could do so in the sennight we had first thought, but I swear to you, there will be no delay once we reach Cambrun and tell them what we need. I dinnae think we will e’en linger to make a plan, for we can do that as we ride for Dunmorton. Whatever happens, someone will see them freed and cared for. E’en if we dinnae reach Cambrun, I have left messages for my kinsmen at every shelter we have been in so that the next traveler from my clan will ken what needs to be done.”

“I ken it. ’Tis just that, now and then, I fear for what they must be suffering. It tears at my heart to think they are being punished while I am free. Ye dinnae think he will kill them because I escaped, do ye?”

“Nay. He wants what only they can give him. Trust me, what he is getting from his vile potions he makes from their blood is nay something he will easily give up.”

She nodded. “That is what I keep telling myself. I also tell myself that I had to escape, that it was all that could offer us any chance to survive.”

“And ye are right. Ye found me, my clan, and the MacNachtons will get your friends out of those cages and kill their captors,” he said even as he mounted Tor and pulled her up into the saddle behind him. “Now, we really must ride. Staying in the open like this isnae safe, nay when I havenae completely shaken those cursed hunters off our trail.”

Una clung to him as he rode using a cautious speed, for his mount was invaluable to their escape from the hunters. She knew Raibeart cared deeply for the animal as well. That could be seen in how he treated the beast, the way he spoke to the animal, and even in the way he petted it.

He petted her a lot, too, she thought, and grinned. Raibeart was a man who liked to touch and she was heartily glad of it. Una wished they were not in a race to escape their enemies, a race to get to Cambrun to get help for her friends. She would like to spend more time with Raibeart, more time to savor and explore the passion that raged between them. She would also like some time to talk to him about exactly what he meant when he spoke of wooing, if she could ever gather the courage to do so.

Numerous times since they had made love she had started to ask him what he had meant, only to choke on the words. That cowardice surprised her. She had never suffered from an inability to say what she thought or demand answers to any questions she had. All she could think of concerning her sudden hesitancy was that she feared the answers he would give her. She did not want to ask Raibeart about wooing for she was terrified he would speak only of passion, need, or want, and not say a word about love or some future together.

Una pushed those thoughts aside. She had decided not to trouble herself with recriminations, regrets, or doubts and needed to hold fast to that decision. If she allowed such doubts and worries into her mind, it could taint what she shared with Raibeart, and that was the very last thing she wished to do. Despite the danger they could not seem to shake free of and the pressing need to save her friends, she was actually happy. Una could see no harm in allowing herself to revel in that for just a little while.

Raibeart frowned toward the woods Una had disappeared into. Even with his keen vision, he could not see any sign of her and he suspected she had made sure that he would not. Although he understood her need for a few moments of privacy now and then, he did not like her to be completely out of his sight. He had managed to elude the hunters, but that was not the same as escaping them. They were still out there, still trailing along behind.

He cursed softly. His attempt to find any Lost Ones had been an utter failure. There had been the hope of only one, a hope held briefly and shattered when he discovered the lass had been murdered by her own husband. The way the man had wept and moaned about demons had given Raibeart a good idea of how the lass had died, and it had taken all his will not to just snap the fool’s neck. Now that he had found a Lost One, and one he had every intention of keeping for himself, he could not seem to get her free of the men hunting her. It was obvious that, in the future, he should just stay with training horses, he thought morosely.

Just as he was shaking free of his self-castigation and wondering exactly how angry Una might get if he went looking for them, he heard a sound that did not belong in the forest. A soft grunt and then a low, mean laugh. The sounds sent an icy chill down his spine. He moved Tor deeper into the shelter of the trees, drew his sword, and slipped into the woods, becoming part of the shadows as he moved silently toward the sounds.

The sight that met his eyes when he found Una caused his fangs to lengthen and the beast to roar to life within him. Two of the hunters had grabbed her. It was obvious from the thin trail of blood on her face that they had not been gentle in the capturing of her. They had also gagged her and were mauling her while she struggled. Their plan to rape her was clear, the scent of their lust tainting the air.

Raibeart could almost taste their blood, his fury making him eager to rip out their throats. It took a moment for him to regain enough sanity to plan his approach. The men would die, but he did not want Una hurt any more than she already had been. He needed a cold, clear mind to accomplish that, but he promised the beast inside him that it would be fed as soon as she was safe.

Una heard a twig snap as she busied herself brushing off her skirts. She spun around and found herself facing a grinning Red Rob and Donald. A quick glance around showed no horses, although their mounts could be just beyond her vision, secured in the dark shadows of the trees. More importantly, she saw none of the other hunters. That meant she had only two men to fight off. Not easy, but not impossible.

“I was right,” said Donald. “I was sure they were circling us, but that arse Angus wouldnae listen to me.”

“Nay, he isnae a mon to doubt himself,” said Red Rob.

“Ye will come with us now, lass.”

Una looked at Donald as if he was a complete fool. “I dinnae think so. I have no wish to return to that madmon ye call a laird.”

“Ye would leave the others to suffer for your freedom?”

That stung, but she told herself not to let Donald pluck at her own sense of guilt and her fear for the others. “The others cannae suffer any more than they already do.”

“Nay, mayhap they cannae. But they can die.”

“The laird willnae kill them. So, I suggest ye just run along back to him and tell him ye couldnae find me.”

“Or what? Ye will call that brute who took ye away from us?”

She blinked in surprise. She had not even thought of calling for help. It had been so long since she had had anyone to aid her that she had simply fallen into the habit of caring for herself, not thinking of how useful Raibeart would be right now. Una opened her mouth to call for him only to find herself slammed to the ground by a charging Donald.

All the breath left her body and she could not have cried out for Raibeart even if she had been able to breathe before Red Rob gagged her with a filthy strip of cloth. She glared at the man but then saw a look in his eye she had become all too familiar with, and it made her heart clench with fear. Red Rob meant to sate his lusts on her, and the glance he sent Donald who sat on her back told her that he had no doubt that Donald would join him in the assault.

Panic gave her strength and she fought, thrashing around until she bucked Donald off her back, but her freedom was short-lived. Both men wrestled with her, struggling to pin her arms and legs to the ground. Una managed to strike several good blows and even gouged Red Rob’s arm with her nails, but they still managed to get her pinned to the ground. Terror washed over her, threatening to drag her into darkness, but she refused to faint and make it all so much easier for them.

“Bitch,” Donald growled as he wiped at the blood pouring from his nose with his filthy sleeve. “Ye will pay for that.”

Red Rob glared at her after he looked at the deep scratches on his arm. “I will make ye verra sorry for this, too.”

So many angry words crowded into her mouth she nearly choked on them. They were angry because she fought against their plan to abuse her? Una was just thinking that the world would be a much better place if such vermin were eradicated when Donald was suddenly lifted from her and tossed up against a tree.

“Move, love.”

Raibeart’s voice was so rough, so like the growl of an enraged animal, that Una barely understood him. She could see a white-faced Red Rob trying to get to his feet so frantically that he kept stumbling and getting nowhere. It did not surprise her that the vicious little man looked terrified. Raibeart was a huge, strong, fanged predator. Even as she scrambled to get out of the way of what she suspected would be a very short battle, she now realized why Raibeart spoke of the beast inside of him. He was looking very feral and very dangerous.

She moved. Knowing her legs would be unsteady because of the terror that was only just leaving her, she scrambled backward, using her hands and feet until she came up against a tree. Una tore off her gag and watched as Raibeart stalked toward a trembling Red Rob. These men may have hunted ones like her, caught them, killed them, or imprisoned them, but they had obviously never met one of the clan she and the others had descended from.

Then, whether from sheer instinct to survive or from a sudden surge of courage, Red Rob leapt to his feet and pulled his sword. Una nearly cried out a warning but knew it could distract Raibeart and clapped a hand over her mouth. A moment later she knew she did not need to fear for him. He exchanged a few sword thrusts with Red Rob before easily knocking the sword from the man’s hand.

“What are ye?” squeaked Red Rob.

“Your death.”

Una winced when Raibeart grabbed Red Rob, slammed him against a tree, and then sank his fangs into the man’s neck. She wanted to look away but could not. This was what she was, the blood thinned through marriage, but still MacNachton. Red Rob was still alive when Raibeart raised his head, idly wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and then snapped the man’s neck.

She looked at Donald at the same time Raibeart did. Donald was on his feet, his sword in his hand, but the look on his face told her that he knew he was about to die. Una did not flinch when Raibeart treated him the same way he had Red Rob. When Raibeart started to walk toward her, the feral look on his face slowly changing to one of uncertainty, she struggled to her feet. The way he had killed the men had been shocking, but she was not disgusted or afraid. Those men had killed a lot of her kind, had hunted them like animals, and had intended to rape her. She would have killed them herself if she had possessed Raibeart’s strength.

Raibeart cautiously reached to touch her cheek. When she did not flinch from his touch, he was almost weakened by the strength of the relief that swept through him. It was not until he had looked at the two dead men that his fury had eased enough for him to realize what he had done in front of her. He had let her see the beast that lived inside every MacNachton Pureblood, but she showed no fear of it. Unable to help himself, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He smiled with pleasure when, as he released her, she stumbled a little and it took a moment for the clouds of passion to clear from her eyes.

“Can ye ride?” he asked when she started to brush off her skirts and revealed no sign of any serious injury.

“I have been riding with ye for several days,” she said, a little confused by his question.

“Nay, can ye ride on your own? Their horses are just inside the woods. We can take them and then ye will have your own mount to ride.”

“Will that make us able to move more quickly and help ye to fight if the need arises?”

“Aye. Tor is a strong beast, but he is carrying two people, isnae he? One would be better, for I could get a wee bit more speed out of him without fear of tiring him too quickly.”

“Then let us get their horses.” She glanced at the two dead men. “Do we leave them for the carrion?”

“I think we have to as the others cannae be too far away.”

“So be it.”

In moments, Una found herself seated on a horse of her own. She looked down at Raibeart and smiled. “I have done little riding in my life so I hope ye will be patient with me.”

He patted her leg. “Ye will do fine.”

She watched him mount Tor, securing the reins of the third horse to the saddle, and grinned. He had just patted her. Shaking her head, she nudged her mount closer to his as they began to ride through the trees. She was going to miss being close to him as they rode together, holding him near and enjoying his warmth, but he was right. There would be a lot of advantages to their each being mounted.

The sky was already growing lighter by the time he led them to a small stone house. Una winced as she dismounted, her muscles aching. It required a lot more strength and attention to handle her own mount. She suspected the fight with Red Rob and Donald had added a few aches as well.

She was still sore after they ate, and Raibeart laid out their bedding while she washed up. Despite her best efforts not to, she let out a soft sound of pain as she settled down beside him. Una really wanted to taste the passion they could share again but suspected her body would make that impossible.

“Turn onto your belly, love,” Raibeart said, “and I will rub away some of those aches ye arenae hiding as weel as ye think ye are.”

She laughed as she turned onto her stomach. “As we are both naked, I was rather hoping we might be doing something else.”

“So was I, but ye have had a hard day. Ye need to rest and let the battering ye took heal a wee bit.”

The soft sounds she made as he rubbed her back and shoulders made him hard with need for her, but Raibeart did his best to hide it from her. She needed rest. The tension of pain began to leave her body beneath his hands and he was not surprised when she soon fell asleep. Raibeart settled down next to her and pulled her into his arms, smiling when she cuddled up against his chest without waking. He would get no loving today but there was always the night.

Chapter Seven

Una woke to a fire raging through her body, the heat of Raibeart’s mouth upon her breast surging through her veins. She opened her eyes just enough to see his head against her skin and tangle her fingers in his hair. Then she gave herself over to the desire he stirred within her with every caress, every kiss. She did her best to touch him, to caress his warm skin, but he began to slide out of her reach, kissing her belly, and then her legs.

“Raibeart,” she called, clutching at his shoulders and trying to pull him back into her arms. I need . . .” She stuttered to a halt as she vainly searched for an appropriate word in her passion-clouded mind.

“So do I, love.”

He did not think he would ever get enough of the taste of her and the feel of her soft skin. Raibeart had wakened with a naked Una curled up in his arms and a need so fierce and demanding he had groaned. He knew they should be getting up, collecting their things, and riding hard and fast for Cambrun, but he could not resist the temptation to make love to her again. They would have little time for such pleasure in the next few days, not with eight other Lost Ones waiting to be saved.

Beneath his hands he felt her body tense with shock when he kissed the neat vee of blond curls between her strong slender thighs. Raibeart ignored her gasped protest and proceeded to make love to her with his mouth. She quickly went wild in his arms, her soft cries of pleasure sweet music to his ears. Una made him feel as if he was the greatest of lovers. When she cried out his name, demanding he join their bodies with all the haughty command of a queen, he laughed even as he obeyed her.

He thrust inside and paused, lightly pressing his forehead against hers. She was so tight and hot he wanted to stay there pinned on the knife’s edge of desire for hours. Then she wrapped her legs around him and he lost that last weak grip he had on his control, taking her with all the fierce, greedy hunger that had built up inside him, and sending them both tumbling into release.

Una barely twitched when Raibeart gently cleaned her off. She did not think she would be able to move again for hours. A small part of her mind tried to make her feel shamed, or at least a little embarrassed, over all she had allowed him to do, but she silenced it. He had driven her mad with need and she really hoped he planned to do it again. If that made her shameless or wanton, she was prepared to accept that. She smiled weakly when he returned to her arms and kissed her.

“This wee stone cottage is verra nice,” she said, idly stroking his strong back. “As dark and dry as the crypt but no dead sharing it with us.”

“And, sadly, no bath, either.” He kissed her cheek. “Ye can have a bath as soon as we reach Cambrun.”

“Tonight?”

He nodded. “That is my plan. We may have to race for the gates, however, but that has been done before. Some of our men have brought Lost Ones home with hunters hard on their heels.”

“I am bringing danger to your home.”

“It has come before and, nay doubt, it will come again.”

“And ye are certain your clan will help us save the others caged at Dunmorton?”

“They will be aching to ride out the moment the sun begins to set.” He slapped her lightly on her thigh and then stood up to stretch. “And that is what we should have done but”—he winked at her over his shoulder—“I woke to a temptation too great to resist.”

Una slipped out from beneath the blanket the moment his back was to her so that she could dress. It was impossible to take her gaze off him, however. He was so big and strong, his shoulders broad and his muscles taut. His skin was dark, as if he had spent a lot of time basking naked in the sun, something she knew he could never do. When she caught herself reaching out with the urge to touch his taut backside, she shook the haze from her mind and hastily finished dressing. Raibeart was certain that they would soon have all the help they needed from his friends. It was time to cease thinking of smooth broad backs, lovemaking, and wooing.

Una took a deep drink of the enriched wine Raibeart apparently had an unending supply of and watched him as he studied the shadowed areas all around them. They still had not shaken the hunters even though there were now only four of them. She was surprised the hunters had not given up yet, especially if they had found the bodies of Red Rob and Donald. When Raibeart turned to look at her, she held the wineskin out to him.

It had bothered her in the beginning that drinking the blood-enriched wine could make her stronger. That need for blood had always troubled her, and she had been glad that the dark hunger had risen only rarely. Now she was stronger and healthier than she had been in years and, at some time during the journey, she had accepted that part of her. What preyed on her mind now was that she had the urge to bite Raibeart when they made love, just as he bit her. She was not bothered by his need to take a wee sip, as he called it, but she was not sure she liked the fact that she was rapidly wanting to do the same.

“No need to frown so, love,” he said and reached out to lightly rub away the lines on her brow. “We will be at Cambrun soon.”

“ ’Tis that close?” She had no intention of telling him what was really making her frown.

“Two, three miles. Ye see that wee mountain just ahead?”

“I see some of it and then it disappears into a misty cloud.”

“Aye, there is always some mist sheltering us from view. I think ’tis one of the reasons our ancestors chose this place. That and the caves beneath the keep.”

“Ah. But, if ye live in caves, why trouble building a keep?”

“The keep is kept dark, too, and our laird stays in it. And the caves arenae like the one we stayed in. The Purebloods have made themselves a fine place down there.” He decided not to tell her that he, too, had a place down there, that such news was best held back until she decided to stay with him.

“And if the hunters follow us right to the gates?”

“They will die there. There is no mercy for the ones who hunt us.”

“Nay, I wouldnae expect there to be any. I dinnae care to think on how many poor souls have died at the hands of men like the laird, and I suspicion nay all of them were truly of MacNachton blood.”

“True, but too many nonetheless. All MacNachtons carry the weight of those deaths. We should have kenned the chance that bairns were bred outside the clan. It has happened at Cambrun, so we kenned it wasnae impossible.”

“That was the responsibility of the men who bred those children, nay you. They didnae tell ye that they had bedded a woman here and there, so how were ye to ken that there was any chance of a child?”

“We all ken how a child is begotten, so when a mon would boast of what pleasure he had found, or taken, for himself, someone should have considered the possibility that there would be a child. Now no mon leaves Cambrun without being recalled to that responsibility.” He suddenly inhaled deeply and then cursed.

“What is it?”

“The hunters draw near, love. I can smell their sweat and their horses. We are going to have to ride hard and fast now. Will ye be able to do that?”

Una nodded and gripped the reins of her mount a little tighter. “Will the horses be able to follow the trail at such speed?”

“Easily enough for a while as the moon is bright and, once we are on the path that winds up the hill, our enemies will have to slow as much as we will. Ready?” he asked even as he freed the third horse he had secured to his mount, knowing it would follow them now.

“Aye.”

The moment Raibeart kicked his mount into a gallop, Una did the same. She did not look at the land they rode through, knowing she would be unsettled by the sight of all the trees, obstacles that could prove a real danger to an unskilled rider such as she was. Instead she kept her gaze fixed on Raibeart, knowing he would lead her in the right direction.

Raibeart could hear the hunters riding hard behind them. It was going to be a close-run race. If it were only himself he had to worry about, he would stop and face the four men squarely. In truth, he would have stopped running and stalked them, a silent killer slipping in and out of the shadows. But, he had to think of Una’s safety first and not just because she was a woman. She was his woman. Leaving her on her own so that he could hunt down the men hunting them had never been a choice.

Once he started on the winding rocky path up the mountain, he signaled Una to slow down. He knew that, from below, it would soon appear as if they had just disappeared into the mists, but he doubted that would stop the hunters. They had come too far and lost two men. The laird of Dunmorton could also have promised punishments so dire that failure was more frightening than facing a MacNachton. At least until he met them face-to-face, he thought with a touch of satisfaction. Soon the men following them would discover why his clan was still feared despite the fact that all that was left of their vicious past were tales whispered in the dark.

Una stared at the keep before them, barely noting that the path they followed had grown a great deal wider. It had appeared out of the mists with little warning and was a formidable building. It looked as if it had grown straight up out of the rock it was set on. She wondered if the ones who had built it had made it look so threatening on purpose. From what little Raibeart had told her of his ancestors, she suspected they had.

She was about to ask Raibeart a few questions about his overpowering home when he suddenly turned to look behind them. Una turned back as well and cursed. The hunters had caught up with them. She had the fleeting thought that it was odd for Angus to be riding behind the others, for he was a man who led, not followed, and then Raibeart appeared at her side.

“Tell my kin there are hunters on our lands,” he said and gave her mount a slap on its rump.

Her horse jumped forward and began to run toward the keep, the spare horse right beside it. From what little she could see while attempting to rein the animal in, Cambrun was set in a rocky valley between two mountains. Daring a look back at Raibeart, she saw him draw his sword and face Dunmorton’s hunters. When it looked as if the still mounted Angus was actually backing away, leaving the other three men to face Raibeart, Una decided being on the back of a running horse was making her vision play tricks on her. Angus was one of the laird’s coldest, cruelest killers and not one to back away from a fight.

Then four men came running toward her and she knew immediately that they were Raibeart’s kinsmen. They were all tall, strong, and too darkly handsome for any woman’s peace of mind. “Raibeart is facing hunters just behind me,” she said quickly as she finally managed to slow her mount down a little.

“Keep riding to the gates, lass. We will take care of those fools if Raibeart doesnae,” said a lean man with cold amber eyes.

Una had not ridden far when screams rent the air and were quickly silenced. She suspected any armed strangers coming into Cambrun lands would have met a similar fate. When everyone found out what Dunmorton’s men were also guilty of, any unease they might feel over the swift execution of four men would fast disappear. The fact that Raibeart had ordered her to say there were hunters told her that such men were already considered enemies to be killed without mercy.

A tall slim man with thick black hair, golden eyes, and softly pale skin caught hold of the bridle of her horse and forced it to a halt. “Who are ye?” he demanded.

“Una Dunn,” she replied. “I came with Raibeart.”

She glanced behind her to see Raibeart and the other men approaching. Raibeart nudged Tor to a trot when he saw the man holding her horse. He looked down at the man as he reined in next to Una and, to her surprise, patted her thigh right in front of the man. Since she was neither hurt nor showing signs of being upset, she wondered what game he played. The way the other man grinned made her wonder if some strange message understood by only men had just been sent out.

“Cousin Einar,” Raibeart said and nodded in greeting, “I thank ye for sending help so quickly.”

“Weel, I ken that ye could take down three hunters with ease, but the lads were bored,” drawled Einar.

“Three?” Una frowned at Raibeart. “There were four.”

“Aye,” Raibeart said, “but Angus was gone but a moment after I sent ye on your way. We thought on chasing him, but he had a good start ere we cleared the path and ’tis too close to dawn to go ahunting.”

“He will hie himself right back to Dunmorton.”

“He has no knowledge that will change anything, love. He but kens that ye escaped with me, and, mayhap, that ye are now with others of your kind.”

“Ye dinnae think that will cause trouble for the others?”

“Nay more than they already have.”

“So ye found yourself a Lost One?” asked Einar, frowning a little as he looked Una over. “The blood tie is an old one, aye?”

“Aye, her grandmother’s mother. One of the cursed Nightriders, I suspect.” Raibeart dismounted and then reached up to pluck Una out of her saddle.

“But enough of one to already be drawing the hunters to her.”

“Aye, and from what she tells me, the mon leading this pack has a lot of MacNachton blood on his hands.”

“Best come in then. First ye can bathe the dust away and then come and join us in the great hall. I ken ye must be weary, but, if the tale ye have to tell is of great importance, the quicker ye join us in the hall the better. There isnae much time left ere many of us will have to seek our rest.”

The moment she stepped inside the keep, two plump, cheerful maids took Una away. She was thoroughly bathed, her hair washed and rubbed dry, and then she was dressed in a lovely blue gown. It surprised her that the gown was not too short. Perhaps the women of Cambrun were as tall and braw as their men, she mused, and briefly smiled at her own foolishness.

Once readied to face the others in the MacNachton clan, Una stepped out of the room only to find Raibeart waiting for her. “Ye didnae have to wait. The maid Jenna told me how to find the hall.”

Raibeart took her by the arm and led her down the stairs. “I will escort ye to your chair.”

“I was wondering why Angus fled as I didnae think he kenned that there were any of us who were stronger, had purer blood,” she said. “He couldnae ken that ye were stronger and more dangerous than any he had met before.”

“Mayhap he did. He could have heard a few tales. Was he born at Dunmorton?”

“Aye, and he has been a hunter for the laird for a verra long time. The laird is a follower, nay a leader, but he has been doing this for a long time under the orders of another, so ’tis verra possible Angus has heard some tales of your clan.”

She stopped walking when they reached the big heavy doors to the great hall. There were a lot of strangers awaiting her inside the hall, people who did not know her but were tied to her by blood. Una was suddenly terrified that she would do something that would make them all wish she had remained lost. Then Raibeart pulled her into his arms and kissed her, making all her fears burn away before the rush of desire his kisses always caused.

“Ye will be fine, love,” he said, pulling back and returning her arm to its place, locked with his. “We need ones like you. Our blood is thin and old. We need fresh blood to survive. Now, take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and come and meet your kinsmen.”

Chapter Eight

“Eight?”

Una looked at the laird, Cathal MacNachton, wondering how a man could put such fury behind one small word. He was a very handsome man who looked to be in his thirties, his much smaller blond wife a few years younger. Bridget was obviously the laird’s Outsider bride. As Efrica was Jankyn’s, she thought, casting a quick glance toward the couple who were both so gracefully beautiful they made her feel like a cow.

“Aye,” replied Raibeart. “There are eight Lost Ones at Dunmorton. Four women, two youths, and two bairns.”

“Bairns? He is holding bairns prisoner?” Cathal hissed.

“Two wee lassies named Joan and Alma. He keeps them in cages in his dungeon.”

Raibeart nearly grinned when every MacNachton in the great hall growled in fury. He glanced at Una and had to swallow a laugh. She was not afraid but she was certainly surprised. He had wanted her to see that anger, to see that proof that the MacNachtons would truly rescue her friends. Raibeart knew she had not fully cast aside her doubts about their readiness to help her. This show of MacNachton rage should be enough to show her that his clan was not only ready, but also eager. He had spun out the tale of their meeting and what she needed in a way guaranteed to feed that anger.

“Why?” asked Bridget. “It saddens me to even say it, but usually these men just kill the Lost Ones, or any MacNachton they get their hands on. Why has he caged these?”

“It appears this laird is mad, milady,” Raibeart answered. “And, by a stroke of luck, a bad one for us, the mon swallowed the blood of a woman named Allana when he fought with her, trying to force her into his bed. The wounds she had dealt him healed quickly and it gave him an idea.” He nodded when both Bridget and Efrica paled. “It didnae take many potions made from her blood for him to see that he was right, that the blood made him healthier and stronger. So he captured more Lost Ones for their blood. He now shares his potions with five chosen men, his personal guard.”

“E’en the bairns?” Bridget whispered.

“Aye, milady,” Una replied, “and ’tis the wee ones I am most afraid for.”

“And I thought the one who held my son for such a thing was but an aberration.”

“This has happened before?”

“Once. It was by men who hadnae planned on taking a prisoner for his blood. They were but testing our strengths and weaknesses.”

“This madmon doesnae care about that. He used to hand the ones he caught over to some other laird, but he wanted Allana first. He and his men are nay very careful in what they take, either. I told the fool he would kill us if he wasnae more careful, that he could nay keep us starving and bleed us for long before we started dying. He just said there were more of us.”

“We will leave as soon as the sun sets,” said Cathal. “That madmon and his guard must be silenced and our kin released.”

The cheer from the others in the room was so loud Una nearly covered her ears. She noticed that the other women looked inclined to do so as well. Nevertheless, it warmed her heart. These people wanted her and the others, wanted to save them and give them a home. She quickly took a drink of cider to quell the urge to cry. When Raibeart slipped his hand over hers, she clung to it.

“And, now, Una Dunn,” the laird said and fixed his golden brown stare on her, “we need ye to tell us every little thing ye ken about Dunmorton and its people. This laird not only harms our kinsmen and women, he now kens a secret about our blood that must never reach the ears of others.”

Una nodded. “I ken it. When I realized what he was doing, I kenned it could mean doom for anyone who was like the others and me. The superstitious and the hunters are danger enough but can be fought and watched for. If people thought our blood could heal all ills or make them more powerful, every mon who heard of it would be hunting us down. They would fight each other for the chance.”

“Exactly. Are ye certain Dunmorton’s laird isnae the head of this snake?”

“I am certain. He speaks of the other one, has sent others he has captured straight to the mon. Now he doesnae trust him and doesnae send him anyone. He thinks the laird who has been ordering him about has been keeping the secret of the blood all to himself.”

Cathal nodded. “That is quite possible. ’Tis disappointing that we have yet to find the one who leads these fools. The few we have e’er spoken to ere they died had only kenned the mon who leads them as The Laird. Nay verra helpful. With the escape of this mon Angus, there is a chance the laird will be warned of our coming.”

“Mayhap, but I dinnae truly think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because he kens we are all orphaned or unwanted. He will think that, because ye didnae take us in years ago, ye certainly are nay going to come rushing into a battle to save us now.”

“Ye dinnae think Angus will tell him about Raibeart saving you?”

“Och, aye, he will, but that was mere chance and Angus ne’er saw Raibeart, um, acting like a Pureblood.” She looked at Raibeart. “Ye said he was gone by the time ye started to fight with his men, aye?”

Raibeart nodded. “He fled the moment he realized I was at a place where I could call for help and get it. At best, he may think I am like you. Howbeit, that may be something he rushes to tell his laird, so I think he will need silencing as weel. If he paused in his retreat for e’en a moment, he would have seen the others come to my aid.” Raibeart shrugged. “He is the leader of that pack of hunters, though.”

“Reason enough to kill him,” said Jankyn.

“Ye are going, arenae ye?” said Efrica, looking from her husband to the laird and back again.

“Aye,” Jankyn and Cathal said together.

Bridget sighed and stood up, revealing a well-rounded belly. “Come along, Effie. We shall need to leave word concerning the supplies they will need for the journey ere we seek our beds.”

Cathal stood and kissed Bridget’s cheek. “Dinnae stay awake for too long, love. Ye need your rest.”

Una watched the two women leave, Efrica’s shape revealing that she, too, was carrying a child. Her womb clenched in a spasm of jealousy, but she shook it aside. It was foolish and now was not the time to think on her own future. Eight people were suffering. She turned her attention back to the rescue plan, ready to answer all the questions the MacNachtons might have. Una also grabbed the chance to make it clear that she was going with them. Reminding the men that none of the prisoners knew them finally won her that argument.

She was trying to fight a yawn only an hour later, and Raibeart gently urged her to go to bed. Una politely excused herself and retreated to the room she had been given. A maid appeared to help her, and within a very short time, she was in a fine linen night shift, washed, her hair braided, and curled up beneath warm blankets on a fine feather-stuffed mattress. Her last clear thought was to wonder if Raibeart would be joining her in this bed or if, now that he was back with his family, he would step away from her. She was so tired that even the hurt that thought caused was not enough to keep her awake.

Raibeart took a drink of wine, knowing both Jankyn and Cathal were watching him closely. He sighed, put his goblet down, and answered the question he could read on their faces. “Aye, she is mine.”

“I didnae see the mark on her,” said Cathal.

“Watching how the rest of ye struggled with your women, ones nay born to this life, I decided to wait and talk to her first. It wasnae easy, for the beast in me is demanding I mark her mine, but kenning that she is a lass who needs to choose, I have held back.”

Cathal nodded. “Aye, she has suffered and nay only at the hands of that madmon who kept her in a cage. He treated the women as his own wee clutch of lemans, didnae he?”

“He did, but he didnae get to her. She said he feared her. I suspicion she could look him in the eye, and even though she is three steps away from being a Pureblood, the MacNachton blood runs strong in her. I would have recognized her as a Lost One the moment I saw her except for that fair hair. She fought like one.” He looked at Cathal. “She isnae the Outsider bride ye were wanting for me, though.”

“Wheesht, it doesnae matter. She is still new blood. She is also more proof that it might be impossible to breed out all that makes us MacNachtons. I accepted that long ago. She doesnae ken all the secrets of our blood though, does she?”

“Nay, although I am thinking that mad laird does.” He told Cathal what the man had said about outliving his sons.

“Have ye told her how old ye are?”

“Nay. ’Tis another thing I thought I had best be cautious about.”

Jankyn grinned. “Aye, old mon. Best step carefully around that hard truth.”

Raibeart looked at Jankyn. “Ye are nay so much younger than I, but I think, after a wee shock, she will accept it. After all, we now ken that she can stay young, too, and she has no reluctance about her small need for blood.”

“I wish ye luck,” said Cathal. “Ye are already lucky in that she was nay raped and she is accepting of what ye, what all of us, are. I meant to ask ye if all the other lasses were treated as harshly.”

“Aye, but nay too often. Allana, the first he grabbed, learned that the mon needs a lass to be afraid and to fight to make him a mon. Two of the others didnae or couldnae heed her advice to not fight the bastard and did suffer some. Another, called Madeleine, can swoon whene’er she wants, so she has escaped that cruelty. None of them can escape the cages, the lack of food and water, or being bleed, though.”

“We will free them. Get some rest, Raibeart.”

As he climbed the narrow stone steps, Raibeart knew he should leave Una alone and retire to his own bedchamber down in the caves. He did not have the willpower to be so discreet, however. In his mind and heart, in his very soul, she was already his. What he needed was for her to accept him in the same way. Despite the fact that she had gifted him with her innocence, he could not be certain she cared for him as he needed her to.

It was a bad time for this, he decided as he slipped into the bedchamber she had been given. There was no time to woo her gently, no time for slowly telling her the full truth about the MacNachtons. One had to ease into such revelations and be prepared to stand firm through the storm that could result. Instead, they would both be riding toward Dunmorton as soon as the sun set.

When he climbed into bed beside her, she softly murmured his name and curled up in his arms. Raibeart did not want her to go back to Dunmorton. The journey and the freeing of the prisoners would be dangerous. She had lived with enough danger in her life. Yet she had argued the need for her presence with reasons that could not be denied. She knew the way in, knew where to look for the guards, and knew where the laird was within the keep itself. Easy things to tell him, but better if showed by the knowledgeable one when they actually got to Dunmorton.

It was her reminder that they were rescuing eight people, four women, two youths, and two bairns, all whom had been gravely abused by their captors, captors who were all men, that had really won her a place in the rescue, however. The quickest way to calm the prisoners and herd them out was to have a person they trusted do it. He would just have to make certain that she was well protected every step of the way.

“Raibeart?”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Aye. Who did ye think it was?”

“I wasnae sure if they had put me in your bedchamber or nay,” Una said as she stroked his chest, enjoying the feel of all that taut, warm skin beneath her hand.

“ ’Tis nay my bedchamber, but I was told where they had put ye.”

“How presumptuous of the maid.”

“Actually it was the laird.” He grinned when she laughed, her warm breath caressing his chest.

“I should be humiliated.” She decided she was too tired to care what others thought. “Does he think I am your leman?”

“Nay, he just kenned that we were lovers.”

“There is a difference?”

“Aye, of course there is, but dinnae expect me to explain it now or my tongue will get so tied up in knots I willnae be able to kiss you.”

She lifted her head to smile at him. “Is that what ye plan to do? Kiss me?”

“That and mayhap a wee bit more.”

“Och, nay, ’tis ne’er a wee bit.”

Raibeart was still laughing when he kissed her.

“Raibeart?” Una called as she began to recover from the passion they had just shared.

Sated and weary, Raibeart managed to mutter, “Aye?”

“There is something more about the blood than I ken, isnae there?”

“Now why would ye think that?” He was suddenly wide awake, wondering if he should be proud of her for being so sharp-witted or heartily curse a clever woman as other men did.

“I could hear it in the laird’s voice, see it in the wariness in your kinsmen’s eyes whenever it was mentioned. If I had kenned it all, no one would have had to look so wary, as if weighing every word spoken on the matter.”

It annoyed him that he would have to tell her the truth so soon, but he could not try to talk her away from the truth. She would soon guess what he had done and see it as lying. He had won her trust and it was precious to him. He would not destroy it because he was too great a coward to face her reaction to the truth.

“There is something else our blood can do for people,” he said, watching her very carefully. “What it does for us is to help us live for a verra long time. The laird’s wife, Bridget, is the one who realized that it could help our mates live as long as we do. Something ye told me the mad laird said makes me think he suspects it, too.”

For a moment she just stared at him, and then Una slowly sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Live a long time? I suspicion that since it makes ye healthier and stronger than most that it would make ye live longer, but that isnae really what ye mean, is it?”

“Nay. How long do ye think the laird and his wife have been wed?”

“I dinnae ken. A few years. Five?”

“Eight and thirty.”

She blinked. “Dinnae be ridiculous. She is my age, mayhap a wee bit older, and she is carrying a bairn.”

“Eight and thirty years. We live a verra, verra long time, Una.”

“But, if they have been married for so long, she should be past the age where she can carry a bairn.”

“Una.” He grasped her by her upper arms and gave her a little shake. “Ne’er mind that.”

“How old are you?”

Raibeart winced, wishing she had not asked that question but, now that he had begun this, he had to finish it. “One hundred and five.”

“Ye tease me,” she whispered, but something in his eyes told her that he was telling her the truth. “Nay. Ye would be long dead and buried.”

“Nay, Una, I wouldnae. To some of the Purebloods in the great hall tonight I am nay but a bairn.”

“So anyone who makes a potion of your blood could live, weel, forever?”

“We are nay sure how long we can live. ’Tis a verra long time, but if a mate is lost or a time comes when one of us feels the long years like a weight upon his shoulders, he will do whate’er is necessary to die without committing the sin of dying by his own hand. Aye, ’tis a miraculous gift but it can also be a curse.”

She thought about that for a moment as she battled her fear and could see the truth of it so clearly. Long, unending years of life, especially if there was no one to share it with, could be a torture. The last of her fear faded as she began to realize that Raibeart would be around for a very long time. Her happiness over that died abruptly as she thought on what else such a strange gift meant. If anyone discovered that secret, the MacNachtons would become a besieged people, everyone eager to bleed them dry. It was a chilling thought and she flung her arms around him.

“That madmon has guessed the truth,” she said.

“I think he suspects, aye.” He stroked her back, wondering if it was the fact that MacNachtons could live so long or that Dunmorton may have guessed the truth that was making her tremble. “That is why he and the ones he keeps close have to die.”

“Aye, but are ye sure a mon as ancient as ye can do it?”

Raibeart stared at the top of her head for a moment in shock and then laughed, both with humor and a heady relief, as he pushed her onto her back. “Wretch. Ancient, am I?”

“ ’Tis naught to fret over, Raibeart. Ye do weel enough for one of your great age.”

“Weel enough? I intend to show ye that I can do a great deal better than just weel enough.”

And he did.

Chapter Nine

“’Tis such an ordinary place,” murmured Raibeart as he looked at Dunmorton. “Looking at it, ye would ne’er think that some madmon is holding eight innocent people in cages set in the dungeon and is taking their blood to make potions.”

Una looked at him and then returned her gaze to the keep. It chilled her to even look at the place. She was outside, lying on the ground beside Raibeart, with a dozen armed MacNachtons but a few feet away, and yet she was still suffering the bitter taste of fear. It was going to take a long time to recover from what had been done to her at Dunmorton, and she had not suffered as badly as some of the others.

“My friends are going to need a long time to heal from this,” she whispered and reached out to clasp Raibeart’s hand.

“They will have it,” he promised. “They will be kept safe. Ready?”

“Aye.” She studied the walls for another moment. “If Angus has returned already, then the laird didnae consider anything the mon said worthy of changing his guard in any way. ’Tis just as it was when I left here.”

“Cathal and Jankyn will already ken the pace of the watch so that we can cross the open space unseen,” Raibeart said as they both wriggled backward until they could stand up without being seen by the guards on the walls. “We dinnae want to spill too much blood. ’Tis just the ones who . . .” He frowned when she pressed her fingers against his lips.

“Ye dinnae need to explain, Raibeart. ’Tis a matter of survival. Nay more, nay less.”

He wanted to kiss her and almost pulled her into his arms when they stood up. She understood what needed to be done, and it was a great weight off his heart. He doubted a day went by that there was not a battle somewhere, man against man, army against army. This fight would not be with only fists or swords but with stealth, teeth, and claws, as well. Speed and silence were important if they were to keep to the plan of killing only those who had committed crimes against his clan or knew the secrets of MacNachton blood. If all went as planned, it would be no battle such as the troubadours sung of but predators taking down a threat to their pack with swift savagery, and he had feared that she would be appalled. Instead there was a look on Una’s face that told him she not only understood; she would join them if necessary.

“Ye are here only to soothe and free the prisoners,” he said as they rejoined the others.

Una smiled with such sweet innocence Raibeart was immediately suspicious. He had no time to repeat his command or get her to promise to stay far away from the fighting, however. Jankyn asked her about the guards, and moments later, everyone but the two youngest left to watch the horses was headed toward the tunnel entrance near the burn.

Raibeart, Una, and two MacNachtons were the first to cross the open land, slip down the rocky bank of the burn, and enter the tunnel. They had not gone far when he heard others behind them and knew they would have enough men to take down the guards. By the time they reached the opening into the dungeon, Raibeart had decided that he hated tunnels, especially ones so cluttered with debris that he had been expecting the roof of the tunnel to collapse on top of them the whole way along.

“They have increased the guard down here,” Una whispered so softly only a MacNachton could hear her. “The side of one of the cages will hide ye as ye step out of here. Stay close to the wall to the left and the old ale barrels will then hide you. There are also abundant shadows in the dungeon.”

One by one, the men crept out of the tunnel while Raibeart stayed next to her. “Ye stay here until I call for you.”

The moment the last of the other men slipped away, Una gave him a quick hard kiss. “Thank ye for wishing me to be safe, but that willnae work. Remember, two of the prisoners are wee lassies that can make a lot of noise if they are frightened. So, too, are there women who may think they are about to be stolen away and taken to an even worse fate. I will be careful and stay near the cages, but I must let them see me so that they dinnae set up a cry that brings others rushing down here. Toss the keys to me when ye get them.”

He cursed softly, having no good argument to weaken the truth of her words, so he followed the other men. When Cathal and Jankyn looked to him for the signal to proceed, he held up his hand. When he saw Una glide through the shadows and reach the children’s cage, he signaled the attack with one sharp movement of his hand.

The MacNachtons attacked the guards, and Una hastily stepped out of the shadows. She noticed no one was surprised to see her, their ability to see in the dark as keen as hers. Little Joan and Alma huddled at the back of their cage closest to her.

“Dinnae fear,” she said, loud enough for the prisoners to hear her but not so loud that it would attract the attention of one of the guards. “These men are here to free you.”

“And from what I can see, that will happen verra soon,” said Allana as she watched Jankyn hurl a guard against the wall, picking the man up and throwing him as if he weighed nothing. “Jesu, they are like us,” she whispered in shock a heartbeat later as she watched Cathal sink his fangs into another guard’s throat.

“Aye,” said Una. “There is so much I need to tell you.”

“Una,” Raibeart called as he took a ring of keys off a dead guard’s body. “Catch.”

She easily caught the keys tossed her way. It was not until she turned to start unlocking the cages that she realized one was empty. Una feared she had returned too late to save all of them.

“Where is Madeleine?” she asked as she opened Allana’s cage and moved on to the next one.

“The laird’s fools took her away,” replied Nan as she darted out of her cage as if she feared she could lose the chance to escape if she moved too slowly. “She swooned as she always does, but I heard one of them say it didnae matter this time, that Angus would enjoy his reward whether she was awake or nay. They believed that would be a fine entertainment.”

“He is giving Madeleine to Angus? But, he ne’er shares the women.”

“I dinnae think he sees it as such a great gift he is giving Angus.”

Una let the little girls out last and they both rushed to wrap their arms around her legs and bury their faces in her skirts. The three women stood together, watching the MacNachtons closely. The two youths, Bartram and Colla, flanked the women. They looked prepared to protect the women, but the faint tremor in their hands revealed their fear. Una did not blame them for being afraid, for the MacNachtons had quickly and savagely killed all eight guards, and she did not see that a single MacNachton had been harmed in the doing of it.

“These are the allies we needed,” Una said. “They are the MacNachtons and ’tis their blood in us that makes us what we are. They are going to take us to Cambrun where we will be safe among our own.”

Allana studied her for a moment. “Ye certainly look much healthier than ye did when ye left here.”

Raibeart stepped up to Una. “There are only three women. Are we too late to save them all then?”

“Nay, they have taken Madeleine to the laird’s chambers,” replied Una. “It appears that Angus has returned, and whatever he told the laird pleased the madmon enough to reward him. Angus gets to have Madeleine, awake or no.” She nodded in approval when all the men’s faces hardened with fury and then told them how to get to the laird’s rooms.

“Einar, I want you, Skelli, Erik, Ranald, and Filib to get these people out and to the horses,” Cathal ordered and then he looked at the cages, his rage at the sight of them easy to see. “Put the guards’ bodies in the cages. Let them rot there. The rest of ye come with me.” He strode away, Raibeart and the others close at his heels.

Una handed Einar the keys before standing back with her friends as the MacNachtons tossed the bodies of the guards into the cages and locked them. She pushed aside the pang of guilt that tried to settle into her heart. The guards had not been terribly cruel, but they had not been kind, either. They had allied with the laird in imprisoning innocents and ignoring the abuses heaped upon them. She suspected they had not been entirely ignorant of what the laird was doing to the women and children he held. When she saw Einar pocket the keys, she knew the man intended to see that his laird got exactly what he wanted. The guards would rot where they were.

As Einar and the other men helped her get her friends out through the tunnel, Una fought the urge to run back to be with Raibeart. She knew, if only from watching the MacNachtons take down the guards, that the men were all capable of taking care of themselves. It did not stop her from worrying about Raibeart, however. She silently prayed that he would return to her unharmed.

Raibeart was surprised at the lack of a guard as they made their way to the laird’s rooms. Even though they were approaching through the man’s escape route, there should have been someone on guard. The ease with which they were advancing on their prey made him wary. When he stood by Cathal outside the door that would take them into the laird’s rooms, he pushed aside that unease and fixed his mind on the battle to come.

“There is a spy hole,” said Cathal in the low whisper that only his men could hear. “Looks to be a tapestry over the door with the hole cut through it as weel. Why would he put one into his own chambers?”

“Una said this room used to be his wife’s bedchamber,” Raibeart reminded him.

“Ah, of course.” Cathal made use of the spy hole. “The woman is on the bed and all the men are looking at her or that redheaded fool, but none are right at the bedside. Seven men so that bastard Angus is there. They are all armed but their backs are to us.” He moved back a little and began to cautiously open the door. “Let us pray no one sees the tapestry move outward. Slip in if ye can but attack immediately if someone sees you.”

Sword in hand, Raibeart was eager to cut these men down and not just because of the helpless woman on the bed, one who had MacNachton blood in her veins. When he had seen the cages Una and the others had been held in, seen the two frightened children huddled inside one, rage had nearly blinded him. The killing of the guards had not been enough. He wanted to kill the man who had put those innocents in a cage and fed off them.

The men in the room were so intent upon the woman, eagerly awaiting her rape, they never saw the MacNachtons slip through the door and into the shadows. Raibeart looked at Angus as he moved toward the man. Angus’s hard face was flushed with lust, but he was obviously hesitant to take the woman in front of six leering men. It would not be long, however, before the crude taunts of the others pushed the man to act, and Raibeart tensed, ready to stop him if he put one hand on the woman.

Then Angus tensed and looked around. Raibeart silently cursed. Una had said that the man was a skilled hunter. Raibeart should have anticipated that Angus could scent the death that was encircling them all. He moved quickly and grabbed the man. A sharp pain in his side told Raibeart that Angus had already prepared for an attack and had armed himself. Ignoring the pain and the damp warmth of blood soaking his shirt, he smiled at Angus. The way the man paled, his eyes widening, gave Raibeart pleasure. This man was responsible for hunting down Lost Ones and sending them to their death or a living hell. Raibeart let Angus see his beast in its full feral glory and then sank his fangs into the man’s neck.

Once he had drunk his fill, Raibeart snapped Angus’s neck and tossed the man’s body aside. A quick glance around told him that only the laird still lived with his throat caught tight in Cathal’s grasp. The ones that knew the secret of MacNachton blood were all dead save for the laird, and Cathal would soon end that man’s miserable life. Others at Dunmorton had undoubtedly aided in sending Lost Ones to the leader of the hunters, but although slaughtering them all had a certain appeal, Raibeart believed that the real threat of Dunmorton would die with its laird.

“To whom and to where did ye send the others ye captured ?” Cathal demanded of the terrified man he held captive.

Thomas MacKay, laird of Dunmorton, no longer looked like the brutal man he had been. He was sweating, shaking, and had soiled himself. Raibeart shook his head. It was hard to believe that such a coward had done so much harm.

“I dinnae ken!” The man’s voice was high and tremulous. “Ne’er met him and wasnae told anything about him.”

“Then how did ye send him the ones ye captured?”

“Took the prisoners north to a wee cottage and his men came and took them away.”

MacKay told Cathal every step taken, from holding the prisoners while a message was placed in that cottage to meeting the laird’s men and the coin he was paid for each prisoner. The laird who had turned the hunters from a few groups of superstitious men into a true threat was very careful to keep his name and his whereabouts a deep secret. The only thing MacKay said about the man that might prove useful was the fact that every message and every prisoner was sent north of Dunmorton. Raibeart leaned against the wall, pressed his hand over his wound, and tried not to be too disappointed at the lack of information as he watched Cathal sink his fangs into the man’s throat, drink his fill, and then snap MacKay’s neck.

He watched the laird toss the body aside and then joined the others in looking at the unconscious woman on the bed. Raibeart hoped they decided what to do with the woman soon for his legs were trembling with a growing weakness. Although he had fed on Angus and the wound the man had inflicted before dying had ceased to bleed, Raibeart decided he had lost more blood than he had realized. Either that or Angus’s blade had done more than pierce his skin, injuring something inside him that could require more blood and more time to heal. It pinched at his pride that he appeared to be the only one who had suffered a serious wound, but he told himself not to be an idiot. They had saved the Lost Ones and killed the ones who knew the secret of MacNachton blood. His wound and even his pride was a small price to pay.

Cathal moved to the side of the bed and said, “Your enemies are dead. Ye are safe now. Una and Allana sent us to get you.”

Raibeart nearly laughed when the woman opened her eyes, sat up, and looked around. “Una said ye could swoon beautifully whene’er ye wanted, but I hadnae realized how verra skilled ye were at it,” Raibeart said and smiled when the woman looked at him, a sharp intelligence clear to see in her light green eyes.

“Some of it was real,” she said in a low, husky voice that immediately drew the interest of several of his clan. “The fool bled me and I always swoon when he does that. Cannae abide seeing my own blood.” She looked him over. “Ye appear to have lost some blood yourself and so can see that observing the bleeding of others doesnae trouble me much at all.”

Raibeart held up his hand when Cathal started to move toward him. “The bleeding has stopped. Lost a lot of blood, however, and I may be wounded inside. I shouldnae be feeling as weak in the knees as I do,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I can get to the horses unaided.”

“Ye will accept some help,” said Cathal, and then he looked back at Madeleine. “We are here to free you and take ye to Cambrun. Ye are one of us, a MacNachton by blood. ’Tis time to meet your people.”

And this one had the look of a MacNachton, Raibeart thought as they all left the bedchamber, pausing only so that Madeleine could spit on the laird’s body. She was a little taller than most women, beautiful, and had long, thick black hair. He accepted a supporting hand from Jankyn as they made their way out of Dunmorton, listening to Madeleine’s whispered tales of her mother’s lovers. The description of the man her mother had believed was her father certainly sounded like one of his kinsmen. There was a good chance that Madeleine would find some close family at Cambrun.

His heart skipped in his chest like some untried lad’s when they reached the horses and Una rushed to greet him, her worry over his wound clear to read on her face. Raibeart began to believe that she cared for him, but now was not the time to try to make certain of that. He exchanged a grin with Jankyn over her head as she helped him with Tor, and then gave himself into her care. It was nice to be fussed over by a woman now and then, he decided.

Una quickly pushed aside her fear for Raibeart as they traveled back to Cambrun. He had looked so pale and weak, his clothes soaked in blood, when she had first seen him return from Dunmorton keep that her heart had clenched in fear. Each time they stopped to shelter from the sun, however, one or more of the MacNachtons would offer him blood, and she could see him grow stronger. She stayed close by his side, uncaring that she shared his blanket in front of everyone, and the last of her fear for him faded away. He had told her that he was hard to kill and she began to believe it.

She also began to believe that her friends would find a home at Cambrun. The women were treated with a courtesy she had rarely seen. The men readily accepted the boys, and she could see Bartram and Colla growing stronger and less wary by the hour. Little Joan and Alma were in serious danger of being heartily spoiled before they even reached Cambrun, the men revealing their love for children in their every word and gesture. Her friends were safe and would be cared for. Una knew she could cease to worry about them now.

Her concern over her own place at Cambrun grew, however, no matter how hard she tried to smother it. She was Raibeart’s lover, but she ached to be so much more. Nothing he said or did gave her the confidence to think that she was or ever would be.

As they rode through the gates of Cambrun an hour before sunrise to be lavishly greeted by the rest of the clan, Una decided it was pride that held her back from reaching for that commitment she craved. She was going to have to swallow that pride and conquer her fear of being rejected. The moment everyone was settled, she was going to confront Raibeart. She loved the man and could no longer continue on as just his lover, waiting in terror for the moment he would set her aside. By the time the sun rose for a second time, she would know if she had a place in his heart, if she even had a small chance of finding one, or if she would be preparing to live away from Raibeart. She could not endure the torment of uncertainty any longer.

Chapter Ten

“Those two bairns are going to be spoiled.”

Raibeart grinned at Bridget. He had not seen her since they had arrived just before dawn and gone straight to their beds. He idly wondered how she could look so much more pregnant than she had when they had left. It had been less than a week.

“Aye, but I think they deserve some spoiling,” he said.

“Verra true.” She shivered and idly rubbed her arms. “It sickens me to think that a mon could treat two bairns as MacKay treated them. Him and his men. They didnae see two wee lassies. They saw animals, beasts they could feed on. They were no better than your wild, arrogant ancestors.”

“Aye, and yet they think us evil and strive to kill us all.”

“Weel, that threat is gone and we have one more small piece in the puzzle about who is the leader of the hunters.”

“I had hoped for more, much more. ’Tis verra clear that this leader doesnae even trust his most ardent followers.”

“We will find him.” She looked around, nodding slightly each time she saw one of the rescued women. “I think those women have cast aside most of their fears. They willnae remain unwed for long. Our men are nay ones to blame them for the abuse they suffered, and, once they see that, they will find themselves claimed. And our men will have the sense to be gentle with them.”

“ ’Tis nay what the laird wanted. They are nay Outsiders.”

“Wheesht, he doesnae care. They have the mix in the blood, some more than others, so ’tis still new blood for the clan. Cathal just wants his men content. After seeing how the cat still lingers in my Callan blood, despite the many years we have diligently tried to breed it out, he kens now that it will be impossible to rid the clan of all that makes it different and feared. He even admits that he is happy about that. Enough will fade so that many of us will be able to fool the superstitious into thinking we are just like them. So, ye dinnae need to fear that he will disapprove of ye mating with Una.”

“So he said and I havenae mated with her yet.” Raibeart knew that was not exactly true, that he had claimed her in his heart and mind, and accepted Bridget’s look of feminine disgust as well earned. “Everyone kens she is mine.”

“Do they? No mark, no claim.”

Raibeart frowned when Bridget pointed toward Una and he saw Einar was working his charm on her and Madeleine. He told himself that dark stirring of jealousy was unwarranted, that Einar was flirting with Madeleine not Una. Then Una laughed and lightly patted Einar’s arm. He heard Bridget laugh when he growled, but he ignored her and strode toward his woman, intending to tell her quite firmly that touching other men was not allowed.

“Ye are a wee bit slow, Raibeart,” said Jankyn as Raibeart started to pass by him. “No mark, no claim.”

“I mean to change that soon,” he said and then cursed when he saw Una walk away to go to talk to Allana.

“We are a clan without enough women for our men and it isnae easy for one of us to find a mate. Going outside of Cambrun is a risk, a deadly one. If she is yours, make it clearer than just sharing her bed. If not, stand back.”

“Oh, she is mine. I have stepped carefully because she was so intent upon rescuing her friends. Once I heard why she sought aid, it was something I was also intent upon. I have told her a lot of things about the clan, but nay about the mating bite. I told her I was wooing her.” He shrugged when Jankyn gave him a pitying look and shook his head. “I held myself back from giving her the bite because I also thought that she, more than many another woman, needed to choose, to be asked.”

“Ah, aye, ye were right in that, but I think ye failed in letting her ken just how much ye want her to choose you.”

Raibeart grimaced. “And take the chance that she doesnae wish to choose me? Nay an easy thing for a mon to do.” He held up a hand when Jankyn started to speak. “I will grasp my waning courage in both hands and do it verra soon.”

“I am thinking ye dinnae need as much courage as ye think.” Laughing softly, Jankyn slapped Raibeart on the back and walked away.

Was Jankyn right? Raibeart wondered as he watched Una talk with Allana. It did not matter if the man was, he decided. Until he heard Una tell him that she was his, the doubts would remain. Since she did not appear inclined to speak from her heart, then he would have to take the first step. She had not shied away from any of the truth about what the MacNachtons were. She shared a hot, wild passion with him. She had fussed over him when he had been wounded. Raibeart took comfort in those signs of caring as he planned the best way to get her alone.

“Your mon is looking at ye again.”

Una frowned at Allana and then peeked over her shoulder. Raibeart was talking with the laird. It had troubled her a bit that he had not stayed at her side, but she had busied herself with making certain all of her friends were content.

“He isnae,” she said. “He is talking to his laird.”

“Our laird now.”

There was a steely conviction in Allana’s voice. “Ye have decided that ye will stay here, become part of the clan?”

“Aye, and I am a part now. Have the blood, dinnae I? But, it isnae just that. I feel safe, as safe as one of us probably can ever feel. I have spent my whole life being in fear, being different enough to draw the dangerous attention of the superstitious and the so verra righteous. I am tired of it. I belong here, with these people. I dinnae have to come up with some tale for why I shy away from the noonday sun or hide that dark hunger that comes o’er me now and then.” She suddenly grinned. “And there are some verra handsome men here.”

Una smiled back but then asked quietly, “And ye think ye could be with a mon?”

“Och, aye. Nan, Mora, and I all talked it over, and we think we can get over what was done. It wasnae done for long, was it? Once that fool failed in the bedding of one of us, he didnae want to see us in his bed again. Our good fortune was that he was a greedy bastard and didnae want to share us, either. And it was just a way to beat us, wasnae it? To shame us and make us cower. The best way to see that the bastard failed in that is to get on with our lives.”

“True, ’tis just that it is such a deeply personal wound.”

“ ’Tis, but it isnae mortal. Ye planning on getting on with your life, too, or are ye just going to leave that bonnie big mon of yours wondering?”

“He is bonnie, but he isnae really mine.” She frowned when Allana made a soft sound of disgust. “Weel, he isnae. He hasnae said he is.”

“Una, men dinnae always say what they feel. ’Tisnae monly, is it? He hasnae e’en looked at the rest of us. He watches ye as if he is afraid ye will disappear. And, if that isnae enough to make ye ken what ye could have, ye didnae see his face when ye were laughing with that bonnie Einar. Someone always has to take the first step and, when it comes to matters of the heart, that someone is usually the woman.” Allana patted Una’s arm. “Ye love him. Let that be the source of the courage ye need.”

Una was still thinking over what Allana had said as she undressed for bed. All her friends were free and obviously settling in at Cambrun. The women were already being courted. The little girls had found an aunt who wept with joy. Both the boys had found relatives as well. No one was certain yet who she might be related to, but Jankyn had promised that he was looking before slyly assuring her that he knew for certain she was not related to Raibeart.

“And I dinnae think I want to ken why he had searched out that fact so quickly,” she muttered as she crawled into bed.

On her back with her arms crossed beneath her head, Una wondered if Raibeart would come to her. He had crawled into bed with her when they had sought their rest after rescuing the others, but she was not certain if that was just habit born of their time together, or because he really wanted to be with her, even if all they did was go to sleep. She blushed as she suddenly recalled how very wide awake he had been when the sun had set.

Passion was not love. Innocent though she had been before she had met Raibeart, even she knew that. He had saved her and helped her save her friends, but he was a knight and that was what they were supposed to do. She and her friends were also of his clan, carrying MacNachton blood in their veins. He was always touching her, but that, too, could have its roots in fickle passion. The only thing she had to cling to as a hope that she might be more to him than a lover was that he had said he was wooing her.

Una was just deciding that she would give herself an aching head if she kept trying to understand his every gesture and word when Raibeart walked into the room. She watched as he moved around the bedchamber as if it was his when she knew it was not. He washed up, shed his clothes, and climbed into bed with her as if he had every right. Since they were not married, he did not, not even if he had been her lover.

“Is something wrong, Una?” Raibeart asked as he propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her frowning face.

Raibeart decided that Una did not look like a woman ready to be made love to. Nor a woman who was in the mood to accept his fumbling declarations of love. She looked like she wanted to hit him.

“I am thinking that ye act as if ye belong here when I ken that ye have your chambers down in the caves,” she said.

“I belong here because ye are here.”

That quiet statement, Raibeart’s rough voice full of emotion as he spoke, made her anger flee. It was no declaration of how he felt, but it was enough to touch her heart. He did belong at her side. What she needed to know was just how long he intended to stay there. Una did not want to push him to say things he did not feel but began to think she had a right to know what plans he had for her.

“I cannae be a leman, Raibeart,” she said. “I cannae bear to shame myself like that before my friends.”

He placed his hand on the side of her cheek and brushed a kiss over her mouth. “Ye are far more than that, lass, and there is no shame in our being together.”

She was about to argue that when he kissed her. For a moment, she tried to hold back the desire that his kiss always stirred within her. They needed to talk. She was ready to take the chance to speak of what was between them, to try and grasp for more than passion from him despite knowing how it would tear her heart out if he only felt no more than desire and liking for her. Then he unlaced her night shift and slid his big warm hand over her bared breast. Una wrapped her arms around his neck and decided they could talk afterward.

The way he stroked her body, touching her as if she were some precious piece of glass, made Una’s passion run even hotter. She caressed his back as he kissed his way to her breasts, and arched in delight when the heat of his mouth encircled the aching tip of one while his skilled fingers teased the other until she burned. This time, when he kissed his way down her stomach and began to make love to her with his mouth, she did not flinch, but immediately opened herself to his intimate caresses. Una wanted to try to make him see what was within her heart by completely surrendering herself to the passion they shared.

Lost in the wildness of what he could make her feel, it took Una a minute to realize that, although he had joined their bodies, he was not moving. She looked up at his face, reaching up to stroke the high color on his cheekbones with her fingertips. He looked so fierce and determined, she thought as she slowly wrapped her legs around his waist and, using her heels against his buttocks, tried to make him move.

“Una, I said I was wooing ye,” he began.

“Ye wish to talk about this now?”

“I but wish ye to ken that I wooed ye so that ye would have a choice, me or freedom to go and find another.”

Beginning to guess what he was working himself up to say, Una nearly grinned at the way he growled out those last six words. Raibeart did not want to let her go and find another. In fact, if she did try, that another could be in real danger. The possessiveness beneath his words thrilled her.

“I dinnae want another, Raibeart.”

“Good, because tonight I mean to mark ye as mine.”

“Mark me?”

“Aye. I am going to give ye what we call the mating bite. It doesnae fade away like the others I have given ye. We dinnae ken why, but once given, it stays and is a sign all MacNachtons can read.”

“One that says mine? ” Una wondered if she ought to tell him he was sweating rather a lot and then just smiled at him. “How intriguing.”

“I want to give ye the chance to say aye or nay,” he said between gritted teeth, his body screaming for him to move, to give it the release it needed.

“How sweet. Aye.”

“Una . . .” He choked when he felt her inner muscles squeeze him like a hot fist. “Jesu, woman,” he gasped. “Ye cannae do that when I am trying to talk, to tell ye that I need ye to agree because . . .”

“I just agreed,” she snapped and, grabbing him by the hair, pulled his face down to hers. “Aye. Hear that? Aye.” She kissed him with all the love and heated passion she felt for him.

Raibeart gave up even trying to talk and lost himself in the heat of her. Just as he felt her body tighten around his, the throb of that impending release echoing in his own body, he pushed her hair back from her neck. He was fighting to find the wit to ask one more time when his delicate woman placed a hand on the back of his neck and pushed his face against her neck. If he was not burning alive with desire, his fangs aching for a taste of her, Raibeart suspected he would have laughed.

Even as Una felt her body shudder with release, there was a sharp pain in her neck. As before, that sent her passion soaring to new heights yet; this time, it was even fiercer, even more blinding. She was so lost in her own pleasure that she only faintly heard Raibeart call out her name in a feral roar followed by the word mine. Una held him close to her even as the searing delight she had felt tear through her began to fade away. Nipping his ear, she whispered of her love for him.

It was not easy, but Raibeart finally found the strength to move, pleased to note that he had retained enough wit to collapse just to the side of Una and not flat on top of her. He touched his ear, the one she had whispered into, and eyed her warily. Usually the sight of her sprawled on her back, her lovely breasts rising and falling as her heavy breathing slowly eased, made him proud of himself, for it was proof that he had pleasured her well. Now he wanted her with her wits all intact so that he could ask if she had really whispered that she loved him.

He touched a kiss to her mouth, pleased when she opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Ye are mine now, Una. This mark will ne’er fade.”

Una lazily lifted one hand to comb her fingers through his thick hair. “I ken it.”

“Ye whispered in my ear whilst we were in paradise.”

She bit back a grin for he looked very much like a small boy trying to find a way to get a special treat without bluntly demanding it. “I ken it. Wasnae sure ye would hear me with all that bellowing ye were doing, though.”

He blinked and then shifted so that he was on top of her, most of his weight resting on his forearms. She was teasing him. “Say it. Say it whilst looking me in the eye and whilst I am not so lost in passion that I probably wouldnae recognize my own name.”

“I love ye.”

Raibeart could hear the hint of uncertainty in her voice and pulled her into his arms before rolling onto his back. In his eyes, Una was beautiful, strong, clever, and all else a perfect mate should be, but he realized she was still a little uncertain of him. She needed to know what rested in his heart as badly as he had needed to know what rested in hers.

“I love ye, too.” He tensed when he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “Nay, no crying. ’Tis what ye wanted, aye? I cannae take it back. I can ne’er take it back. Ye are mine.”

“Hush, ’tis but the shine of happiness, Raibeart.” She laughed softly when his body heaved from the strength of his sigh of relief.

“We are mated now, but ye can have a proper wedding, a blessing by a priest and all that.”

“Ye have a priest?”

“Aye, a cousin. Do ye want me to fetch him?”

“Raibeart, this”—she touched the mark on her neck—“is enough for me, but I would like a priest’s blessing. Nay for me but for the others saved from Dunmorton. A wedding between us, with a wee celebration, will be perfect for giving them that last feeling of being home, I think.”

“Aye, ye are right and it will be done.” He reached up to stroke her cheek, idly wondering what he had done right to deserve such a gift. “Are ye sure, Una? Are ye verra sure?”

“Verra sure.”

“I think I loved ye from the moment I saw ye. It would have been wiser to find a way around the trouble I saw that night, but I couldnae. Told myself it would be a good thing to do before I had my rest, but I could never have ridden away from you. I accepted that ye would be mine in the cave and ne’er wavered.”

“I think I loved ye from that day as weel. I didnae run away, did I?”

He thought of all she had suffered and suddenly realized that she was right. She should have tried to escape him, especially since she had just come from being chased down by five men. He had been a stranger until they had realized they were alike, a stranger she had the wit to know could have snapped her neck in a heartbeat, but she had stayed.

“It was fate,” he murmured.

“I believe it was.” She kissed him. “I stayed and never thought to do anything else.”

“And now ye are mine.”

“As ye are mine.”

“Forever?”

“And a day.” He kissed her when she laughed, thinking that he was a very lucky man to have claimed that music for his own.

A KNIGHT BEYOND BLACK

Jackie Ivie

Chapter One

She felt him before she saw him. As if the ballroom suddenly went off-kilter without warning. Tira stumbled, feeling oddly light-headed.

“Forgive my step, Miss Coombs. I over-rotate at times.”

Her partner’s words had a slight edge to them. Everything Sir Robert Graves said displayed a distaste of the eldest Coxton-Coombs sister. He preferred Ophelia. Most men did, for no visible reason. The elder sister was renowned for her beauty, although she’d never have Ophelia’s blond curls and blue eyes. Perhaps it was the russet shade in her warm brown locks they didn’t find attractive. It might be the glint of amusement in her green-tinged eyes. Perhaps it was the hint of lines about those eyes further evidencing her age; maybe a perceived lack of grace.

She was flirting with spinsterhood, but tonight she was determined not to think of it. But flirting wasn’t even accurate. She was so close she was standing at the precipice and looking right over it. Speaking of looking over . . .

Tira looked across and down at Sir Robert Graves and felt the slide of curls along her shoulder with the move. He didn’t meet her eyes, but he rarely did. It drew attention to his lack of stature, showing the balding pate, weak chin, colorless eyes. That was before the thin shoulders, white, limp hands, and smallish . . . Tira stopped. There wasn’t much about Sir Graves to eulogize. But she guessed he probably most disliked her because his mother favored an heiress and made no secret of how few would accept his suit, should he offer it. Tira shook off the dreary thought again. Time enough for that later.

After this incredibly horrid ball.

“Could we . . . sit now, Sir Graves?”

He didn’t finish the rotation before turning, unaware of Tira’s quick glance toward the entry doors where she’d felt something or someone. She’d actually hoped it might be the man portended by Christa; a man of such presence he’d alter her entire world. It was against all reason and advice to listen to her maid, and now it felt foolish as well. Christa claimed to be fey. Tira swallowed disappointment at the empty portal designed by Robert Adams.

Tira tightened her lips, looked back, and froze. Everywhere. Even her toes in the too-tight slippers designed more for elegance than comfort.

“I’ve come for our dance.”

It was a man: large, well bulked, and Scot. Even without the brogue attached to his speech, she’d have known. He was full Highlander and not averse to showing it. Dressed in attire that looked barbaric and harsh: a knee-grazing kilt, tasseled socks, a plaid sash scoring what looked to be a massive chest, a black velvet jacket, lace-touched jabot, silver canteen hanging at his hip, while what could only be a sword hilt could be glimpsed over his shoulder.

A sword? In Coombs Court ballroom?

Tira cracked open her fan and started fluttering with it. They’d never allow a weapon at this ball. But she instantly knew no one would stop it. The newcomer defied argument. He looked readied for trouble and sure of victory. She’d never seen anyone so completely sure of himself. Masculine. Immense. Brawny. Impressive.

Exactly as Christa foretold.

Reaction was happening as musicians and dancers limped to a halt, stared, and whispered. Tira sensed it. She didn’t hear it. Her heart was giving her an issue with how it moved to clog her throat and then fill her ears. If her jaw hadn’t loosed, opening her lips, she’d have had trouble breathing.

There was more. And it was worse. This man was handsome, easily eclipsing those she’d seen or imagined. His features went right into the realm of beautiful; enough to cause swooning. Lengthy dark hair was pulled back, highlighting a face made for sculpting. She’d never seen such a man. Her knees trembled, pings of sensation sent moisture to her hairline, and her lips opened even more. And he knew it. All of it. It was in the coal dark eyes meeting hers over the top of everyone’s head. That was another thing about him. The newcomer dwarfed her. He did the same to everyone, including the trio of clansmen at both sides of him.

“I—”

Her voice ended. She sounded breathless. Anticipatory. She should argue. Demure. Tira fluttered the fan faster, lifting wisps of hair from her forehead. She hadn’t many names on her dance card, but for certain his wasn’t one of them.

“ ’Tis time we met. This night.”

“To-to-tonight?”

“Are you na’ a score and one on the morrow?”

Tira’s lips snapped shut with the same motion she used on the fan, releasing it to dangle from the cord about her wrist. Of course, she was twenty-one tomorrow. Everyone in the household worried over it with the possible exception of her father. And he’d just announced it to her lone suitor, Robert Graves.

“Sir Graves.” The Highlander nodded toward Robert, as if reading her thoughts.

“Your Grace.”

Sir Robert released her hand and left. Tira didn’t see it. She couldn’t move her eyes as the newcomer put out an arm, tipped his chin, and favored her with a pulse-stopping look. That’s exactly what happened, too. Her heart dove right to the pit of her belly to pound from there, sending a flush to every single portion of her.

“You’re . . . a duke?”

“It matters?”

He stepped closer, taking up space, teasing her nose with male scent before he took the hand Sir Robert had released. It must be cold outside for the temperature of his skin chilled. But that was ridiculous. She was nearly overcome with heat.

“No,” she replied, since he seemed immobile, awaiting it.

“Verra good. Come. We’ll dance.”

There wasn’t any music, but that changed as if by magic. The moment he moved with her, strains filled the room: lilting, haunting, and sweet.

They played a waltz. Tira got pulled effortlessly but stopped before connecting with him. It didn’t matter. Her breasts sensed him and reacted, both nipples tightened from a rivulet of shivers she couldn’t stop. All of it totally foreign.

His thumb outlined her knuckles, running along ridges of the hand he’d captured. That sensation was heightened by the texture of his velvet jacket on her other digits. She barely touched him and it still overwhelmed her. He rotated easily and gracefully while her knees weakened. She stumbled. The arm at her back tightened, pulling her right into him, where an immediate loss of air collided with a total impression of flesh-covered iron. She really did risk swooning. Her knees sagged. Her vision dimmed. This was much worse than Christa warned.

And much better.

“I’m told you’re christened Tira?”

His rumble of voice went through her. Tira blinked once. Again. And as many times as it took to get the man’s shirt back into focus and her limbs from their disembodied state.

“Pardon?”

“ ’Tis Gaelic. And proper.”

“Oh no. None of this is proper.” Tira glanced up, touching her chin to the white lace at his throat. It was insane. They hadn’t even been introduced.

“Iain.”

“Iain?”

“Iain Duncan Evan James Alexander MacAvee IV.”

He was reading her mind again. Tira stiffened and spoke her next words to his upper chest. “This won’t do. Not at all, and I’ll thank you to—”

He interrupted her with more rumble of voice, completely ignoring her protest. And that wasn’t at all normal. Or acceptable.

“There’s more that I’ve nae desire to state. Unless you require it.”

“I don’t require a thing.”

“I’ve titles to add. The newest being Duke of MacAvee. Afore that, Earl of Glencairn and Blannock, chieftain of Clans MacAvee, MacGruder, and two other clans. I doona’ wish to bore you with them at present. Mayhap later. After another dance.”

Another? Oh no. And another no. And a third and fourth one as well. It would create gossip and speculation, and those Tira couldn’t afford. Not with imminent spinsterhood facing her. She moved her gaze, met his, and everything on her reacted with a jerk into the band of arm behind her. She stumbled again, and this time she got lifted. And then held. Close. She couldn’t gain breath . . . not with his cheeks narrowed, putting a kissable shape to his lips, and she didn’t even know what that would look like. Her body had the weight of a feather, the consistency of a cloud, and the stamina of a puff of air.

“You dance verra strange, lass.”

The voice rumbled through her again. She couldn’t miss it, not with her breasts crushed against him. If anyone noted how closely he held her, Tira would hide in embarrassment. What was she thinking? Of course they noticed! It wasn’t possible not to.

“You . . . need to set me . . . down. Now.”

As an order, her whisper didn’t have much impact. As inducement, it seemed to work perfectly. Tira’s eyes widened as he simply raised her farther, bringing her eyes level with his chin. Then his cheek. His entire frame vibrated against hers with the most alluring hum, while a heady sensation bubbled through her, increasing her heartbeats. And that just seemed to elevate his.

“Do I?”

“This . . . is creating . . . comment.” And then, to her absolute horror, she giggled.

His trembling increased, apace with the tightening of everywhere she touched, while a nerve throbbed at the side of his jaw. Tira watched it as he focused somewhere into the throng of dancers about them. And then he complied. Tira found her feet back on the floor during a spin and then held until the floor ceased swaying. His arm loosened, releasing her. Tira couldn’t face him. She watched the silver of his brooch for a bit to gather her wits. Tira Mirabelle Coxton-Coombs was known for her intelligence, her conversation, her sense of propriety, etiquette. This sort of reaction was irresponsible. Incredible. Unseemly. And entirely thrilling.

Patience.

Iain ran the word through his mind until it worked. It took all his concentration and strength to ignore how every beat of her heart tugged his into ragged rhythm with it. But it was difficult! He finally had her, right in his arms. His mate. Near-forgotten needs and urges flickered into being, pumping desire and lust where he’d long ago tamped. Hardening. Stiffening. Elongating.

Soon, Iain. Soon.

The lass had no idea how close she was to getting lifted over his shoulder, taken from the trappings and frippery of this ballroom, and then ravished within a scream of her life. He never wanted her to know. It was enough that he did. The vestige of civility had slipped, but he’d caught it. That should make him proud, rather than locking his jaw in an agony of frustration and want, while all of him ached and trembled. And lusted.

He’d waited for her to reach the proper age. He could wait another night. He forced the urges away, blinked, and looked back down at the woman.

Chapter Two

Tira smiled slightly and ducked her head to hide any reaction. It wasn’t possible, but just about everywhere she went this incredibly dark, dreary, and rain-filled morn, she’d glimpsed something that reminded her of him: that Scot. Massive. Incredibly handsome. Iain Duncan . . . James. And more names she couldn’t recollect . . . MacAvee.

She hugged her shawl closer to her as she led first Ophelia, dressed in a yellow day gown that seemed to wilt with every step, then Ophelia’s maid with Christa, and behind them came two Coxton-Coombs footmen, whose duties were carrying any purchases the sisters made. They made quite a retinue as Tira chose which shops to patronize and which to pass. This expedition was her birthday present to herself, but the inclusion of Ophelia and her maid were a decided curse. Especially given the girl’s acidic remarks on Tira’s lack of decorum last eve. As if she could have prevented the duke from dancing two times with her.

Two times ? More like five . . . in succession. Tira puffed her cheeks out and then blew the sigh. Dancing before an introduction was decidedly improper. And then doing little more than watching as he’d bowed over her hand and exited? Without one word to anyone else? All of it was beyond bad form. It was enough to get her ostracized.

Tira forced her shoulders back. She was grateful to live in this enlightened age. Why, a generation earlier, she’d have hidden in shame at such behavior. Now, although it was a chore to force a bright smile to match the tinkling bell as she entered a dress shop, it was still done. But then she had to keep her expression as Lady Higginswale met her glance. The woman must still hold out hope that stays could be manufactured to cinch in her bountiful shape. Nothing could be done about her gossipy tongue, however.

“Lady Higginswale.” Tira greeted her and waited. The woman made it a long wait, too.

“Mistress Coombs. You look lovely this morn.”

“Love-ly?” Tira’s voice reflected surprise, despite being prepared.

“Your ball was a great success. I vow, I’ve not been so entertained in weeks. I do hope you’ll soon have another. Thank you, Mistress Elsie. I’ll be back for a fitting on the morrow. Good day, ladies.”

“We’ll see you at the recital this eve?” Ophelia spoke up as Lady Higginswale passed her.

“This eve? Of course, Miss Ophelia. I look forward to it.”

Ophelia’s expression did more than show disbelief. It was comical. She’d expected outright social censorship. Especially after spending a good part of the morning pointing out how improper Tira had acted with that Scotsman. Tira watched her sister’s gushing conversation with Lady Higginswale as she walked with her to the door, passed out onto the walkway, nodded to passersby. Nothing made sense.

Tira fully expecting and deserved to be gossiped over and then sent home to the country with her cheeks burning. She didn’t know how Ophelia would manage, but Tira hadn’t worried. Much. Four seasons without an offer for her hand was good training on surviving social gossip. It always passed on as something more interesting and scandalous happened. But to emerge unscathed from her outrageous behavior of last eve was unsettling and odd.

A bolt of seafoam-shaded silk caught her eye. Tira grazed her fingertips along it. There was something sensual about the material. She blushed at the idea of such a fabric touching her in an intimate manner and what might happen if a certain Scot gentleman was there to see it . . . and then she looked up at Iain MacAvee’s chest—right across the table of fabrics from her. Without one bit of warning. Not even from the little bell atop the door.

He hadn’t shrunk since last eve. If anything, he’d increased in size and presence and impact. He was clad in the same pattern and shade of Highland plaid, although it looked a bit more casually tossed on, he had the black mass of hair pulled back in a queue again, and he still had a sword hilt peeking over his shoulder, as well. In a ladies’ dress shop. As if he belonged there.

And actually looking like he did.

Tira faced the rawhide lacing of his shirt for the count of eleven heartbeats, holding her hands to her bosom and wondering not only where her wits had gone, but why Ophelia hadn’t even noticed and reacted.

“You take forever to select, lass.”

“I . . . beg your pardon?”

Her words came with an exhalation of breath. He matched it. His chest filled with air, exhaled, moving the rawhide lacings apart with the action. Tira’s lips parted.

“You. Flitting about from shop to shop. Looking over wares, yet selecting naught.”

“I have not been flitting.” Tira thinned her lips as a sign of reprimand. It didn’t seem to work.

“You fancy this?”

He reached forward, across the table of fabrics, to place his fingers where hers had just been. She didn’t dare look up.

“I believe I also hanker.”

He could be reading her mind. Again. And what she’d been envisioning sent a rush of mortification all the way through her, rooting her in place.

“You needn’t flush so, lass. I’m well acquainted with the vagaries of a woman’s desires.”

Tira gasped. Sputtered. “Of . . . all the licentious—Bold. Unbelievably crude—”

He interrupted her as much with his words as how he reached for her hands still held close to her bosom. It wasn’t possible to not be shocked.

“So young. Untried. Naïve.”

“Naïve? You continue to bring up my age, Your Grace. Very well. I admit it. I’ll have you know I may not be in the first flush, but I’m well versed in social proprieties. And you are offending all of them.”

“Who wants that?”

“Everyone wants proper behavior.”

“Na’ that, lass. This first-flush thing. Only an untried youth values such.”

Tira’s jaw gapped. She lost her words and her breath. She almost lost her balance.

“And I’m well past that.”

“H-how did you get here?”

“Back door.”

“Why is no one else noting it?”

“All establishments have back doors.”

“Not that. Why isn’t anyone noting you?”

“Should they?”

“Of course. You’re a man. A-a-a Scotsman. And you’re very large. Immensely so. Impossible to overlook. Especially in a ladies’ dress shop surrounded by females.”

“You wish others noting us? Listening?”

Heaven forbid. “No. I just wonder at how anyone could miss such a thing.”

“It’s fain easy.”

“Really?”

She was whispering. He wasn’t. As if he wanted everyone to not only notice that she was meeting with him, but overhear what they said as well.

“All I needed was to locate you.”

“How did you do that?”

“Your sister has a large voice.”

True. Ophelia did have a loud way of speaking. And had said a lot of words. As did he. None of them her answer.

“The better question is more the why of my locating you.”

“All right. I forfeit. Why were you . . . locating me?”

Tira lifted her head and damned the solid pump of her heart as her eyes connected with the obsidian of his. Silently. She couldn’t do a thing about the lurch of her frame. Nor could she prevent his sure knowledge of it as his lips quirked and then went to a grin, showing a glint of teeth. It highlighted his handsomeness. Totally unnecessarily.

“Did your da na’ tell you?”

“Who?”

“Your da. Father.”

“Father was to tell me something? What?”

“That’s for his lips to speak, lass. He should have done so well afore last eve. Was he there?”

“He’s bedridden.”

“Truly?”

“Has been for years.”

“Good.”

“G-g-good?” Tira gasped and her eyes went wide. Her tongue wasn’t working, either. She’d worry about her pronounced stammer later, when she wasn’t being assailed with the view and smell and impact of this particular man.

“Forgive me. That sounded . . .”

“Brutish?”

“Nae, lass. Honest.”

He smiled, but it didn’t have the same effect.

“I-I think you’d best leave. N-n-now.”

“I meant nae disrespect to His Lordship. ’Tis well and good he has reason for his lack of guardianship. Leaving you open to interlopers such as Graves. When he kens the consequences of laxness. Fully.”

And like that, his joviality vanished, replaced by such intensity Tira stepped back a step. And then another. But one blink of her eyes had him right before her, as if there hadn’t been a solid structure between them loaded with bolts of fabric.

“I dinna’ mean to frighten you.”

“I’m not . . . frightened.” It was a lie. She was disturbed. Angered. Shocked. And frightened.

“You’ll forgive me?”

Tira tipped her head.

“Please?”

“I—”

Tira’s voice stopped. She found her hand plucked from her bodice and held in one of his, gently, as if it was the most fragile thing. He was cold. Again. Still. Chills went trembling through her and she knew he felt it. He had to. His head bent forward and he pulled her closer at the same time—on feet that moved despite any order of the contrary. It was pure insanity to be drawn to a man in such a short time. Especially one of mercurial temperament. That didn’t stop it. It was too intriguing.

Tira’s lips parted, allowing each gasp passageway. The pulse was loud in her ears, overwhelming everything else, while every breath of his touched minutely on her, gaining volume and cadence with each one, matching her. Breathing as one.

“Iain!”

A sharp whisper stopped him, and the next moment, she was in a folded semi-crouch, held to a wall of flesh-covered iron with one arm and facing a kilt-clad man. The duke’s other hand already held his sword, blade out, while the sound of steel sliding against the scabbard echoed about them, loud and harsh and foreign sounding.

“Come.”

The man gestured and Iain stood, sheathing his weapon without looking while maintaining his grip on her. She had no choice but to feel the muscle-covered bulk of him moving against her, but she really should’ve held back the sigh.

“I must go now, lass.”

She nodded.

“Tell your father I’ll be there this eve.”

She’d been released to face the fabric table that looked stable and solid and real. Tira gripped it until her legs belonged to her again and her knees ceased wavering. Such a reaction wasn’t due to anything attached to His Grace, the Duke of MacAvee. She only hoped he didn’t think so.

“He . . . does not take vi-visitors.”

“He’ll take me.”

“I . . . truly don’t think—”

The slightest sound of feminine chatter started filtering through the air, surrounding them with the sense of women. Lots of women. She blinked rapidly and continually, recognizing first Ophelia, since she was the loudest, and then her maid. And then she heard his whisper.

“Prepare yourself, my sweet.”

Tira whipped about and faced nothing more than the maw of shadow that was the dress shop’s hall leading to the back door. It was empty.

“Are you going to mull that purchase all morn?”

“Wh . . . at?” Tira turned back to face Ophelia, flanked by both maids.

“That silk. If you want to purchase it, say so. Don’t just stand there, running your hands on it, while you daydream.”

“Day . . . dream?”

“What else would you call it? We’ve been here nigh on a quarter hour, while I’ve had three dresses drawn up for me, and you’ve done little more than moon over that bolt. I’d say just buy it so we can leave. I’m parched.”

“The duke . . .” It was whispered.

“MacAvee?”

Tira shook her head. She was confused and it would sound worse. But it felt too real for a daydream.

“Well, don’t act as if he’s going to miraculously appear. There hasn’t been anything resembling a man near this shop all morn. Unless you count Sir Graves.”

“Who?”

“Who? Your beau. Sir Robert Graves. Are you feeling ill?”

“Sir Graves . . . is here?”

“Oddly enough, yes. He’s right outside, waiting on our appearance. But I wouldn’t call him a man anymore. Not after the example we got last night.”

The ladies twittered amusement of Ophelia’s comment while Tira watched. Like an outsider. And then she moved, ignoring the silk. If the fabric could bring about such a vivid experience, she wanted nothing to do with it. She didn’t give it another backward look.

Chapter Three

He hated sailors. Especially the drunken ones.

Iain lifted his head, pulling back his teeth at the same time and grimacing on the cheap gin odor that filled his nostrils, dimming any enjoyment. It was the same with every sailor they brought him. Sotted. With cheap gin. Or cheaper whiskey. Nothing a Scot would allow past his lips. And here Iain was, destined to consume it.

The man at his feet shook slightly and groaned. His eyelashes quivered.

“We need leave, Your Grace.”

“Aye. Now.”

The warnings were unnecessary but always given. By these Honor Guardsmen, and their fathers, and their fathers before them. Exactly as it had been for decades. With exactly the same effect: none. Iain wouldn’t leave until his prey woke. He didn’t care. He’d made the promise after the first time he’d tasted blood and felt the effect it had on his senses—acutely. And then he’d had to suffer what happened. He’d never take a human life again. Not for anything as mundane as sustenance.

“Now!”

The word was hissed and Iain moved, leaping from a crouch at the back of the alley into a second-floor window opening with little effort and less sound. It was the six guardsmen shadowing him that made noise, moving in differing directions down uncountable alleys, while the seaman sputtered and then shouted. And then stumbled to his feet to yell some more.

Iain had needed this last one. Not for sustenance . . . more for endurance. For what he had to do this very evening with the woman fated as his mate, destined, birthed into this world just for him. Forever. She was his. He’d known it twenty-one years ago and he knew it now. With every moment that passed. He little cared that she’d been born into a Sassenach family with only a hint of Scot roots and even less claim of honor. She was his mate and he knew it. The moment she’d existed he’d felt it. Every leaf in his orchard and every animal in his stables had reacted. Or Iain’s senses had been reborn again, with even more height and breadth and scope.

Three hundred lonely years he’d waited and now she was here, within reach. As succulent as a ripe peach, as deep as a windswept moor, and as beautiful as every moonrise he’d watched. More so. This Tira was all woman, every bit of her. Finely built. Curved in all the proper places. Tall. And she was his. Or soon would be. Fully. Iain wiped his hands on his kilt band, wondering at the damp feel of his palms.

The man in the alley stumbled, growling and cursing and then staggering into a wall. Iain watched it unfold exactly as the last one they’d brought, not a half hour earlier. Both men would wake with a headache and a sore neck, and bruises they couldn’t explain from a fight they couldn’t remember. Suffering a hangover from a drunk they couldn’t recall. And then they’d brush themselves off, enter the nearest tavern, and start all over again.

Hell. He hated seagoing men.

Tira wasn’t allowed in to see Lord Coombs until late, after pretending a headache and watching Ophelia and Aunt Adelaide leave for the recital. The day was already interminable. What with Ophelia fussing which dress was eye-catching in the event the mysterious Duke McAvee attended, Tira’s emotions rarely felt so stretched. Taut. Elevated.

Excited.

She was on her third visit to her father’s chamber before his manservant, Timms, allowed her in, for a few moments only, if she spoke softly and didn’t upset the earl.

“Father?”

He looked to have shrunk more since yestermorn when she’d visited. Legs, long useless and withered, made little impression in the coverlet, while his face had never looked so drawn and pale. And old.

“Father?”

“You’ve come about MacAvee.”

“Y-yes.”

“Come. Sit.”

“What does he want, Father?”

“He didn’t say?”

“He told me to hear it from your lips.”

Her father took a heavy breath that didn’t make much change in his covering, and then made a rattling deep in his chest as he exhaled.

“Of course. And it should.”

This wasn’t good. The earl’s reply meant the visit in the dress salon hadn’t been dreamed. And it hadn’t been imagined. And that meant it was impossible.

“I met MacAvee almost twenty-one years ago. No. That’s wrong. I met his father, the late duke.”

“Twenty-one years?”

Her father nodded. “He arrived at Coombs Castle with a retinue of servants and outriders to make a man’s jaw drop. All of it in exchange for what I had.”

“And that was . . . ?”

“You.”

“Me?” Tira launched into the room outside the reach of the candles. It hid the instant reaction and her inability to curb it.

“As wife for his son and heir.”

“You went behind Mother’s back?”

Her father coughed hard enough to bring Timms to his side, a glass of brandy in one hand and a cloth to catch blood specks in the other. Tira watched them from her position at a bureau, resting her head on the wood for the support and to mute the sounds of labored breathing. Then the liquor started to work, granting her father time to talk and the strength to do so.

The earl was always this way before the brandy worked, and just before he’d get morose and depressed over the carriage accident that took his wife’s life and made him an invalid. It hadn’t been his fault, but that didn’t change it. His wife was still dead and he was still half a man . . . or less.

She’d be asked to leave before the next stage. But that was counterproductive to why she’d forced this meeting. Tira straightened her back, bringing her head level with the furniture piece, and waited.

“Your mother . . . was in full agreement. Her signature is on the document.”

“There’s a document? In this day and age?”

“His Grace insisted upon it.”

“But why, Father? Why?”

She didn’t feel anger, resentment, or resignation. And it definitely wasn’t repulsion. It wasn’t even shock. It was something worse and with much more power, something akin to excitement.

“I don’t understand the issue. MacAvee chieftains are well known for power, and presence, and vast holdings . . . and other things that women whisper of.”

“I don’t care what he owns and what his titles are.”

“What of the man? You care little for that, as well?”

“I . . . hadn’t noticed.” And she was terrible at lying about it. Timms barely caught a chuckle, while her father moved something on his upper body as if to join in.

“I’ve heard he . . . favors his sire. Even my sister, Adelaide, spoke of it.”

“She knows?”

“No. She visited me this morn. Asking that I proffer an invite to MacAvee . . . for her sake. And Ophelia.”

“Aunt Adelaide? Ophelia?” Tira wasn’t jealous. She told herself the instant flash wasn’t jealousy. It was better labeled anger.

“You need to come closer, Miss Tira. He can’t shout.”

Timms gestured her to the chair set at her father’s bedside for any visitors he might entertain. Everyone knew only Tira sat there. Tira settled onto the brocade and wound a ribbon tie from her gown about her index finger.

“According to your aunt, marriage to this MacAvee would be a pleasant thing.”

“She said that?”

“And more.”

Tira didn’t answer. Her tongue felt swollen, her throat tight, and her cheeks burned. She found the thought of her marriage to MacAvee very pleasant . . . especially the idea of intimacy and what that might mean. But that wasn’t the issue. She spoke next to her ribbon-wrapped hand.

“You still should’ve told me, Father. Or at least warned me.”

The earl sputtered, Timms dabbed at his lip, and then both men turned toward her. “That was your mother’s duty. Along with . . . all the other things a mother tells her daughter on the . . . day of marriage.”

“The . . . day?” Tira’s eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that.

He nodded. “Your twenty-first birthday. Today.”

Tira sucked in a breath. “Even if I agree to this outlandish arrangement, I can’t possibly be expected to wed with so little time. Notice needs to be given to the papers, invitations need to be organized and sent out, and I don’t even have a gown.”

Her father snorted. The cloth in Timms’s hands caught the smattering of blood spots. He held it there as the earl shuddered through another coughing spell. It didn’t sound like his usual, however. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was laughing. Then he calmed, gulped another swig of brandy, and looked back at her.

“You’ve little . . . choice, Tira. And little reason. He favors his sire. To the minute. In everything. And that includes . . . his impatience.”

“I can say no, Father. This is not the Dark Ages where daughters were treated as chattel and wed accordingly. I run your estates. I’m well versed in it. I don’t have to wed at all. At least give me some time.”

He sighed. “Twenty-one years is a powerful amount of time, Tira. It feels like an eternity when you’re just starting out. Some days it felt like forever.”

“Is that why you agreed?”

He rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. “I never expected my brother to pass on, and as the sixth Earl of Coxton-Coombs, I’ve responsibilities. It takes gold . . . to maintain. Lots of it. I didn’t know where to turn. I had a worm-eaten estate and little more than debt. The east wing was roofless. The Norman wall collapsed. There were accounts to settle, pensions to pay out, and farmland to either work or lay fallow, letting everyone starve. And no one could overlook your grandfather’s debts of honor.”

“How much did he pay?”

“It was your hand or debtor’s prison. For the lot of us.”

“How much, Father?”

“Everything. The man set up a fund to cover everything. All we have was paid with MacAvee gold. Your clothing, the food and wines we consume, the horses we ride. All for your hand.”

“I can’t wed a man I’ve just met!”

“It shouldn’t be too great . . . a hardship. Just look about you. He’s wealthy, powerful, and according to Adelaide . . . very manly.”

“It takes more than that for me, Father.” The blush was back, and with it a flurry of shiver.

“How much more, lass?”

Tira stumbled to her feet, upsetting the chair onto its back while the earl started such a coughing fit, Timms looked overwhelmed. All of it because a man stood at the edge of the light, allowing glints to flicker on the silver of his outfit and the six men always shadowing him. Tira dropped her gaze to the floor between them.

“Your Grace.”

Little things helped with the absolute horror of reviewing what she’d just said. Etiquette. Propriety. Tira consciously followed it. Greet. Curtsy. Continue breathing. She didn’t move her eyes the entire time. It was easier.

“You dinna’ answer my question.”

“How did you get in here?”

“We were announced. You failed to hear it.”

Tira couldn’t look anywhere near him. Not until she had the embarrassment fully hidden. She’d cringe over it later. “You eavesdropped on private words.”

“He told you, then?”

“Private words,” Tira repeated.

“Had I na’ arrived as I did, I’d na’ ken you found me . . . lacking.”

There wasn’t a hole in the floor between them, regardless of how she kept looking for that very thing. He was waiting for an answer. The entire room felt like it was. Tira swallowed.

“Lack . . . ing?”

The word got split in two, the last half making little sound since he moved so quickly and silently; within a blink he was right before her, breathing whiffs of air all over her exposed neck and shoulders. She should’ve changed into a high-necked woolen dress for this visit. Worn a heavy shawl. A cloak. Or stayed in her room and hidden.

“It does na’ help if you frighten her, Iain.”

One of his men spoke, denting stillness that held only her father’s attempts to breathe and the hard pulse of her heart. The man before her pulled to his full height, sending light between their shadows on the floor. He put his hands on his hips next and inhaled, deep, heavily, and loud. “You heard her. She finds me lacking.”

It sounded worse every time he said it. And she didn’t find him lacking. It was the circumstances. She opened her mouth to somehow put that into words but got forestalled by them speaking to each other in a foreign language of some kind.

Chapter Four

“She finds me lacking. You heard her. Grant, decipher this.”

He spoke in Gaelic and was answered in kind. The man on his right stood straighter before turning his head to lock gazes. “I doona’ believe that is what she meant.”

“You heard her. We all heard it. She finds me lacking. Me. Iain Duncan Evan James Alexander MacAvee IV. Duke of MacAvee. Chieftain and laird. Me.”

“She dinna’ truly say—”

“How am I lacking? In what way? With what facet? There is nae equal throughout the land. And if there is, he’ll also fall once met. ’Tis my bane and what I’ve been cursed to.”

“All true.”

“ ’Tis also true that I’m the most landed Scot? My properties encompass a goodly portion of the Highlands. Am I na’ the largest? Strongest? Most lauded with medals and honors?”

“Aye.”

“And doona’ the women find me pleasing to look upon?”

“You need ask a woman, Your Grace,” Grant replied.

“You’ve heard complaint?”

Iain had both hands on skean handles. The man on his left answered.

“He means . . . as your Honor Guard . . . uh. Well. We all ken you’re the most pleasing to women. ’Tis na’ something we speak of, but we’d fight any who doubt and slander it. That is what my twin seeks to say but canna’ get his tongue to assist.”

“Then what could the lass find lacking, Lenn? Somebody tell me.”

“Perhaps she speaks due to ignorance. She’s na’ been around Highlanders afore. We’re forthright. Honest. Our ways are na’ as prettified and tactful as a Sassenach.”

“This is your fault, Grant.”

“Mine?”

“ ’Twas your advice to wait. Stay from her. Allow her time to reach full womanhood afore claiming her. And look at the result!”

Iain gestured to Tira and watched her start. Without reason. He clenched his teeth further, gaining a prick in the cavern of each inner lip. That made him grimace. And that had the lass stepping back into the wreckage of her chair.

All of it unwarranted.

“She pulls back from me. Me.”

“My laird.”

The man went to a knee, his sword held out by the hilt and his head bowed, offering his neck for his punishment, in a Sassenach lord’s bedchamber. As if that were normal and accepted in this country and this time. Iain swallowed and reached out a hand.

“Rise, Grant. She already thinks us barbaric and crude. Taking your life for such a thing is centuries overdue your forbear. Trust me. Now, cease this foolishness and assist me with this. All of you.”

“Perhaps the woman is simply startled?”

Iain turned to Grant’s twin. “Of what?”

“You. Us. Our appearance. So bold. Swift. Without warning.”

Iain swore, and then howled words to the ornately plastered ceiling above his head. “Then help me with this! She near faints with the fright at me.”

“Reacting so is na’ assisting.”

“What should I do then?”

“Na’ what you wish to.”

Iain speared his smallest man, Rory, with a glare. “And that is . . . ?”

The man pulled his sword, planted it into the parquet floor beneath him, his actions causing a gasp of sound from the English, obliterating any other sound. Rory winked.

“Haul her over your shoulder and take her. There’d be little fight, and should there be, we’d engage it.”

Iain took a step in her direction, coiled his fingers into fists at his sides, and then staunched the emotion. Not more than a century ago and with any other woman, he wouldn’t hesitate. But not now. Not this one. Tira was special. She was fated to be his. Forever.

He sucked in unneeded breath, watched as Tira’s eyes widened, watching him, and then he eased the air out slowly, deflating his chest back to normal width, while she watched, unblinkingly.

“Rory is na’ helpful, Iain. The lass needs civility.”

“Civili . . . what?”

“Civility. She’s na’ used to our ways. She needs words spoken to her. Na’ more show of power and threat of harm. Words.”

“Words?”

Grant gained his feet and sheathed his sword before finishing. “Aye, words. Softly spoken. With loverlike tones.”

“Softly spoken?”

“With loverlike tones.”

“And what, pray heaven, does that sound like?”

“You wish a demonstration?” Grant’s tone deepened, filling the chamber with baritone. Iain shoved an arm out to stop the man’s advance on Tira, should that be his next move.

“Tira is mine, Grant. Mine.”

“Then go. Speak to her. Use their ways to sway and then claim her.”

“I canna’ do this.”

“Try.”

Iain sucked in both cheeks, lowered his head, and regarded his second-in-command. “This is what happens when I trust a Sassenach, putting my fate in their hands. Regardless of the gold placed in those same hands, nothing is gained save betrayal and deceit.”

“None betray you, my laird.”

“My own tongue is about to,” he replied.

He approached where Tira stood, her hands clenched so tightly her fingers looked white. She had beautiful green-shaded eyes, the color of Loch Nyven’s deepest pools. He’d been drawn into them from the moment of meeting. Right now they looked the same shade of black as his. Beside her, the near corpse of her father watched, his mouth opening and closing like a salmon fresh-pulled from a burn, and at the other side of the bed, the manservant stood, the shaking shadow he cast giving him away.

“You’ve naught to fear from me, leannan.”

She shook her head and moved back another step, making the tipped chair slide with it and losing a bit of the candle’s light on her features.

“You ken?”

“I . . . don’t understand,” she whispered.

At least, that’s what he thought she said. It was difficult to hear over the sound of her increased pulse toying at his ear, the perfect smell of her nearness filling his nostrils, and the essence of her surrounding him like a lover’s embrace.

Iain gulped. “I’d never harm you, leannan. Uh . . . sweet. Ever.” He reached for her hand, but she flinched and stopped him in place.

“English, Your Grace.”

Iain straightened back up and looked over his shoulder at his men. “What?”

“I doona’ believe the lass kens our Gaelic.”

“Was naught done correct and to my order?”

The lass backed farther, stopped when a wall met her back, and then looked to cling there. Iain moved his gaze from her face to the floor and then to his outstretched palms, glimmering with dampness he was forced to swipe on his kilt. Damp palms? At his age? He tried again, softening his tone.

“I said you fear without reason, lass. I’ll na’ harm you. Ever.”

“I don’t fear you.”

She looked to be ready to faint of it. Iain straightened and regarded her. She didn’t move her eyes from the area of his chin.

“Truly?”

She nodded.

“Good. Then give me your reason. Please.”

“For what?”

“You find me lacking. I wish to ken how.”

“That . . . was not for your ears to hear.”

She was going a rosy shade, suffusing her cheeks with a darker tone. Or the candlelight lied. Iain regarded her for long moments, willing a meeting of gazes until it finally happened. And then, if he still claimed a full heart, that was what thumped, startling him with the violence of it. He watched her eyes go full wide before she dropped them to the area of his chest.

“But . . . ? You said . . .” Iain voice’s dried up. In three centuries, he’d never had this issue. Yet now, facing this slip of a girl, he felt the start of his own flush, flustering and annoying and embarrassing him.

“I said . . . nothing of the kind.”

“You’ll wed with me now?”

“ No.”

“Nae?”

The word was ejaculated without regard to anything other than his Highland roots. Honest and forthright. And angered. She might have reacted, but it didn’t sound in her voice.

“That should teach you to eavesdrop on private conversations. Your Grace.”

She added his title as an afterthought, as if making certain he felt and heard the disdain. That just wasn’t right or correct. And it surely wasn’t happening to him. Iain pulled back slightly.

“Grant?”

“My laird?”

The man materialized just behind Iain. On his right. Iain watched her assimilate it without one show of fear.

“Help me with this.”

“Miss Tira?”

She tipped her chin up and easily met his man’s gaze, without one bit of fright or anything else. That started a wash of emotion right through Iain. Like the harshest Highland wind and just as chilling. As if he could still feel such a thing.

“The duke—”

“Can speak for himself. And if he wishes to continue speaking with me, he’d best start.”

“Your Grace.”

Grant bowed in defeat and deserted him. Iain watched it before pulling in a breath for something to do besides facing her and wondering over the prickle of gooseflesh that roamed his limbs, raising bumps and startling him. He could feel such? Now? With her? Realization and joy had to be the sensations making him light-headed and weak feeling. Like a youth with his first lass. Iain could swear his knees even trembled.

His knees trembled ?

He swallowed, but it was more a gulp, loud in his ears. He hadn’t felt so alive and unfettered in more years than he wished to remember. It was thrill and joy and absolute bliss. And it was his. Or would be . . . once he solved this problem. He grunted and heard the rustle of weaponry from his men as they reacted to it.

“Well?” she asked his chest.

Loverlike words. Iain searched his mind for the right ones and got them on the first try. “Forgive me, lass.”

“For what, this time?”

“Eavesdropping. Startling you. Arriving without warning. And especially for my appearance.”

“I never said anything about . . . that.”

Iain blinked. Staunched what felt like champagne bubbles erupting in his chest. Spoke again. “Which, lass?”

“Your appearance.”

“You find me pleasing?”

“I never said that, either.”

“You dinna’?”

“It’s this betrothal you claim. That is the issue.”

Iain grinned. She hadn’t answered his query and that sounded like an answer, especially as she’d touched her glance minutely to him, before shying back to the vicinity of his chest. He knew when a woman found him pleasing, and this one did. She couldn’t hide it. Which meant something else caused her to demure. He tried again.

“The MacAvee chieftain is considered a great matrimonial prize, lass. Fathers from all over the region requested a union with me. Their visits were in vain. I was already promised. By dint of a betrothal contract, signed twenty-some-odd years ago. For you. As my bride.”

“Why . . . me?”

Iain couldn’t explain. He didn’t even know. “And so I have come. To claim her—you. To claim you. As was agreed. And I find my bride verra pleasing in face and form. . . . Verra. Yet she has a decided aversion to me. And I canna’ ken why.”

“I wouldn’t call it aversion.”

“Then what is so displeasing?” Iain lowered his head to make certain he heard the reply but was stopped as the door to the chamber opened behind him somewhere, letting in light and sound and interruption. A slight blond wench and an older woman entered the chamber, followed by manservants and fuss just when he’d been about to hear what he needed to. Iain barely caught the snarl as he whirled about.

“They tell me we’ve visitors! At this time of night. And in your bedchamber? Father? What is the meaning of this?”

“Your Grace.”

Both ladies said it in unison as they reached him, curtsying and filling his nose with sneeze-inducing lilac scent. Iain folded his arms and regarded them. The earl saved him in a weak, quavering, ill voice that sounded loud as a trumpeter.

“The duke . . . has come to finalize . . . a betrothal, Ophelia. Adelaide.”

“He wishes a union? Oh, Father.”

The blond clasped her hands to her bosom and smiled up at Iain. He watched the vein pulsing in her throat with interest and then, from behind him, he heard his answer, coming clear and sweet from his Tira’s lips. Exactly as he wanted and without having to mouth one more loverlike word to her.

“The duke is offering for me, Ophelia.”

“You? But—”

“We’re betrothed. Isn’t that right, Iain?”

The lass actually said his name with pride. It enveloped him with a heady sensation. He had no choice but to hide it, along with everything else.

“Ul . . . rich?” The name came out louder than Iain wanted with a higher octave on the first of it.

“My laird?” The requested clansman was before him, ready.

“You may begin.”

“Exactly what do you think you’re doing, Iain James MacAvee?”

His soon-to-be wife didn’t sound elated. Her voice had a disciplinarian edge Iain hadn’t heard in more years than he could remember. He cleared his throat.

“Wedding with you,” he replied. “Exactly as you specified. Just now.”

“I said betrothed. There’s a lot to do before a wedding. Invitations must be sent, an announcement to the papers. A-a-and . . . we need to get better acquainted.”

“Acquainted?” His eyebrow rose. If he still claimed feelings, he’d swear his breath caught at the little stutter she’d made.

“We’ve yet . . . to even be . . . seen together.”

“You’ll see more, lass. Just get the words said and I’ll show all to you. ’Twill na’ be of issue.”

Her eyes went wide, showing their green color. Iain swallowed to squelch instant need and want and absolute, pure lust.

“That is not what I meant. We should . . . ride in the park. You could call on me. Perhaps attend to a ball or fest together. In the proper attire.”

“Proper attire?”

“Without weapons and battle gear. You know . . . proper.”

“How long?”

It was harshly said. Both women at his side reacted. His Tira merely looked up at him with an unreadable expression on her face.

“A month.”

“Nae.” His voice was rising. Despite the hold he put on it.

“A fortnight then.”

“I will na’ give you even a sennight, leannan.”

Her eyes regarded him for long moments. And then she tipped her head to one side, blinked. “Five days,” she replied.

She bargained? With him? Iain pulled a deep breath again, not for need but to expand his chest. He watched her gaze drop there before returning.

“Four.”

A smile touched her lips, making them look fuller. Ripe. Made for his kisses. Needful of them . . .

“Done,” she replied.

Chapter Five

“Another bouquet. How odd.”

Tira looked over at Ophelia, fussing at the enormous flower arrangement that was Iain’s excuse for not attending to anything he’d agreed to. Her sister’s sarcasm wasn’t disguised. And it hurt. Somewhere beneath the bodice of her high-necked day gown, where Tira would never admit.

“Well . . . he is a lot of man. Almost more than a woman should be required to handle.”

“Is there a note with them?” Tira ignored Aunt Adelaide’s pointed words. Nothing could be gained by defending the duke. And she didn’t want yet another discourse on his manly attributes. Especially not from a woman old enough to be his mother.

“You expect one?”

“Just checking,” Tira replied without one inflection that could be labeled hope. She’d given it up and would be mortified if it still showed. Unlike the first three days when every arrival at the front door had started her heart to thumping and her palms to going damp.

“More gifts and messages for Miss Tira.”

“Nothing else?”

It was Ophelia speaking for her. The footman shook his head as he entered, bearing another huge bouquet. He was followed by two more men laden with more presents and congratulatory notes, and invitations she wouldn’t accept. Not without the duke at her side. The news had engendered the exact scrutiny she’d worried over, and worse. Every woman who called had a veiled remark or two about her dowry and how much the Scot duke must need it. Tira didn’t answer any of their barbs. She just listened and hoped. She still didn’t know why he’d wanted her. And why, once gaining her, he’d disappeared.

“He should at least send an explanation. That way I wouldn’t be at a loss when everyone asks where he is,” Ophelia said.

“You needn’t answer,” Aunt Adelaide stated.

“What? And appear rude? The next thing you’ll offer is that I stay home, avoiding anything to do with society. Like Tira.”

“Tira isn’t avoiding. She’s busy.”

Aunt Adelaide was wrong. Tira was definitely avoiding. She accepted the batch of envelopes from the salver with grace and practiced the same skill on the other Coxton-Coombs ladies.

“She’s leaving me with all the unpleasantness. And doubt. Over the authenticity of the announcement. Why if I hadn’t witnessed it, I’d be questioning it as well. . . .”

There were more spite-filled and jealous-laden words. Tira shut them out. One of the envelopes had large bold writing on it. With ink-laden swirls showing a heavy hand with a quill. She knew it immediately. Her heart stuttered into a faster rhythm as she tore the seal and then gasped.

“What is it? Is it the duke?”

Tira nodded.

“What does it say?”

“He’ll be here. Promptly at nine. As escort. To the Devonshire ball.” She didn’t tell them of the last line. It was enough it burned her eyes.

“Oh my. What shall I wear?” Ophelia’s voice warmed. “Everyone will be looking. It will be so exciting.”

“They won’t be looking at you, my dear,” Aunt Adelaide answered in a tight voice.

“Look to your own laurels, dear aunt. And allow me mine.”

“It’s rumored he has a large appetite for the ladies. It’s a family trait. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

“I hope Tira knows what she’s getting into with that man.”

“You only wish it was you.”

“Of course I do. And it should be me. What man wants an old spinster?” Ophelia smiled sweetly.

“MacAvee. Obviously. Or he’d have asked for a little girl,” Aunt Adelaide parried with her own smile.

“The next thing you’ll aver is that he’s fond of old widows.”

Tira stood, settled her skirts about her, and left them. She didn’t care what caustic taunts they tossed. As if the duke was a prize to be fought over and available for such a thing. Tira held the note to her bodice as she climbed the stairs. He wasn’t available to any other woman. She didn’t care what the rumors were. He was hers. And soon would be. His last line promised it.

“I should replace the lot of you. The moment we reach Loch Nyven’s shore.”

“We’re your Honor Guard, Iain. Sworn to it.”

“And subject to replacement. At my whim. Without recourse.”

“There’s none to best us, Your Grace. We won every challenge.”

“In contests of strength. Endurance. Loyalty. But na’ one of you has the cunning to see me fitted correctly. Just look.”

“Get the duke another neckcloth.”

“ ’Tis na’ the cravat thing concerning me, Grant.” Iain pulled at the crotch of his superfine wool trousers, concerned as it pulled where it shouldn’t.

“You should don pantaloons first. As specified.”

“There’s na’ enough room. Look at me. What lass wishes to see this?”

“All of them, most like.”

Iain speared Grant’s twin with a glare that usually got results. But something had changed since meeting the lass, Tira. His men acted differently around him: easier, relaxed, high-spirited.

Odd . . .

“You’ve been tupping the wrong wenches again, Lenn.”

The man’s grin widened at Grant’s teasing. They were teasing? Around him? Then, Ulrich spoke up.

“ ’Tis correct attire, Your Grace. Truly.”

“Encasing a man’s legs? Outlining things? Nae wonder we wear the kilt. I doona’ even have my sporran.”

“There’s none to match you, my laird. And after this appearance, there’ll be nae one questioning it, either.”

“He’s right. We’ll have more issue keeping the lasses from you. But we’ll try. And I’ve first call.”

That was Rory. Snickering. As if he had the right. Iain regarded him for long moments. The glee didn’t fade, and the man still grinned. Like a fool.

“If this is a Sassenach’s proper attire, they’ve changed. Markedly,” Iain remarked finally.

“ ’Tis na’ that bad.”

“Only if he stands in one spot and doesna’ move.”

“ ’Tis exact to specification. Even Brummell would approve it.”

“Who?”

“Beau Brummell. Arbiter of men’s fashions. As followed by the Prince Regent. During my grandsire’s time. At least this is what I’ve read.”

“Someone should keep Ulrich from the history tomes.”

“And me from appearing near naked,” Iain added. He couldn’t even believe it. He was teasing. For a moment nothing came in the room except stunned silence. And then some chuckles.

“Your Grace has us there. I’ve nae doubt you’ll send lasses into a faint and gents to their dueling swords.”

“They doona’ allow dueling swords in their ballrooms, Lenn. Take it back or His Grace will be for strapping on his blade, Empirical.”

“And just how would he use it? The slightest move might create scandal.”

“Perhaps we can cancel?”

“Word’s been sent! She has a promise of escort. This eve.”

Iain listened to their banter, coming in rapid fashion, without thought to retribution. Consequences. As if he were normal and such a thing as a man’s prowess could be joshed over among men. He shook his head to stop the thoughts plaguing him. And Grant spoke up with an apologetic tone.

“Your Grace?”

Iain sucked on both cheeks, earning a prick on them. Then he released the expression. “You’re dense louts. The lot of you. And na’ one of you has a grasp of measure. This is the best you offer? After four trips to three differing tailors?”

“We dinna’ have full measure, Your Grace.”

“Light excuse.”

“You could’ve warned us.”

“Or accompanied us.”

“Daylight drains me. I canna’ rise unless ’tis dark or rain filled. You all ken this.”

“His Grace is right. We’ve had naught save sun. For three days.”

“You still should’ve warned us of your . . . uh . . . size.”

Iain looked them over, one at a time. His men were attired in burgundy-shaded cutaway coats, MacAvee plaid vests, gray trousers, and each one sported an intricately tied cravat at his neck. They looked gentlemanly. Stylish. Proper. Exactly as he was to have appeared.

It was too late to change. Too late to regret the nights spent assuaging craving, trying to kill frustration that came from waiting, wanting, lusting, hungering. He’d been feeding when he should’ve been fitted. Tailors could be bribed. Then he wouldn’t have to worry. One stretch of his arms would split a seam somewhere. He already knew. They’d heard the rip. His shirt was the lone thing sewn large through the middle. As if a man of his dimensions sported a belly to accompany it. And his trousers fit without one bit of room to accommodate him. It was enough to make him pitch the entire ensemble into the fireplace, don his feile-breacan, and disclaim all knowledge of the niceties of English society. Except he’d promised her.

“It is na’ that bad, Iain. Truly. Look for yourself.”

Grant gestured to a mirror and then his arm fell. They all looked uncomfortable. Iain waited, watching. He’d never worried over a reflection until now. Because it had never mattered.

“Call the coach, Rory.”

“And bring along some smelling salts. For the ladies.”

“Lennox Geoffrey MacGorrick.”

The man grinned at Iain’s tone. “In the event you forget and move too quickly. Or something of a like nature.”

He was late. That didn’t mean he wasn’t coming, but it didn’t portend he was, either. Tira sat on the edge of a damask-covered settee in the salon and practiced at ignoring every tick from the clock and how her sister and aunt preened, argued, paced, checked ceaselessly in the large, ornately framed mirror. Paced again. As if they were the woman the Duke of MacAvee had betrothed and promised to escort.

They’d taken care with their appearance. Few would miss their appearance at the ball. Not with the scarlet gown Aunt Adelaide had donned, the color contrasting vividly with her ash-blond hair. It was theatrical and meant to be. Ophelia wasn’t going unnoticed, even in a gown of ecru-shaded silk that proclaimed her debutante status. She’d had the neckline lowered and wore a peacock blue sash just beneath her breasts, the entire effect making certain none could miss her décolletage. She probably shouldn’t have crimped her blond locks into little ringlets all about her head. It might be the style, but it didn’t suit her.

Or so Tira thought. She’d ignored the hairstylist’s advice tonight and foresworn crimping and curling, opting for one long braid wrapped about the crown of her head and falling down her back. She’d had her best gown pressed and fingered the rose-on-rose–colored embroidery on the skirt. She probably wouldn’t show well against the other Coxton-Coombs ladies, but she didn’t have to. It was obvious they were in competition, and just as obvious for what prize.

“His Grace, the Duke of MacAvee, and—”

There was more said, and at the same tone, but Tira didn’t hear it. On the heels of the door opening was Iain, looking a perfect gentleman. And more. He looked a perfect, stunning, jaw-dropping gentleman. And that’s exactly what happened to hers.

Chapter Six

Time stalled, encased in candlelit wonder. Tira didn’t hear his approach. She only knew one moment she was standing while he entered, and the next he was right before her, his eyes holding hers, while every heightened gasp she made seemed to reverberate through him. He had his head tipped down, lashes shadowing the curve of his cheek, and then he smiled, revealing a flash of pearl white.

Tira’s body pulsed, lunging into the space between them in a barely perceptible move that startled her. And then it looked to move through him, even as he reached for a numb hand and took it to his lips.

“Leannan.”

Candles from the chandelier glinted on shiny black strands of hair he’d pulled into a neat queue that looped over the white material about his neck. Now that she saw him dressed as fashion dictated, she realized the truth. He wasn’t handsome in the accepted way. He was more. He was absolute masculine beauty, framed incorrectly. MacAvee’s brawn and strength wasn’t encased in velvet and muslin and satin; it was barely restrained. He should be free of encumbrance, attired as his nature hinted, in a kilt, sleeveless shirt, doublet, sporran, a plaid.

And then she heard a rip.

Iain lifted his head, sending a whispered curse into the air before he swiveled, looking himself over for damage. Tira barely kept the amusement from sounding. That was the expression on her face when he stopped, moved his gaze back, and sent a solid thump of a heartbeat all the way through her.

“What does that mean? That name you call me? Leannan ? ”

She didn’t think he’d answer for a spell as his cheeks pulled in and he avoided meeting her eyes. And then he looked to have decided something, for his chest enlarged and he sent the sigh of air into the space between them. He met her look again, and that sent a whoosh of sound so strong through her ears that she had to guess at his words.

“ ’Tis Gaelic.”

“And the . . . meaning?”

“ ’Tis an endearment. Of sorts.”

“Sorts?”

“Pester me with this after our wedding, lass. And the consummation that will follow. Immediately thereafter.”

Tira swallowed, controlled her eye width with force of will, and regarded him. “You don’t know me well enough for such a comment.”

“I doona’ need to.”

“Well, I certainly do. This is what the acquaintance time was to remedy. The acquaintance time you failed to provide.”

“Forgive me, lass. I could na’ attend to you as required. Because of what else you required.”

“You make little sense, Your Grace.”

“Iain. Always. Iain. We’ll be wed within hours, lass.”

“I have another day.”

“Oh nae. You have three hours. And na’ one moment more. Exactly as you bargained.”

“But you failed your part.”

“I’m here. Escorting you. In Sassenach frippery.”

“Three days overdue.”

“ ’Twas na’ possible sooner. There’s a dearth of tailors in this town that can fit a man proper.”

“You look proper enough.” And more. Stunning. She finished it in her thoughts.

“After three days of trying. You little ken what dragons were slain in order to accede to your wishes.”

“Dragons?”

“ ’Tis a metaphor. For the curse of trousers. And the poor lads forced to wear them.”

Tira glanced down. Her thoughts stalled. Her eyes went wide, then her mouth. And then she blushed. Severely. She moved her view to the wallpaper-covered wall over his left shoulder.

“And this is the best fit. English tailors are an untalented lot, or a Sassenach is nae match for a Scotsman. You tell me.”

“You could have worn your kilt thing.”

He sighed. She felt it. “I’m here now, lass. And you’ve three hours. ’Twould be a powerful shame to spend the time with words of dissent.”

“That would be a cheat, Iain MacAvee.”

He didn’t answer for so long she had to look at why. He was regarding her with a set jaw and an aura of danger about him that frightened and yet thrilled, causing goose bumps to ripple over her arms.

“Were you a man, I’d have your throat.”

Tira gulped. “I need . . . another day.”

“Give me one fair reason.”

“We could have vast differences. Our union could be doomed from the start.”

“You’re the woman fated for me.”

“I don’t believe in fate.”

“You doona’ believe in destiny?”

“The only thing I believe in is the ability to reason. That and solve problems. This is what I believe. The future is not fated. It’s open. Changeable. Adaptable.”

“I swear it to you, lass. We’ve been fated. From birth. Perhaps farther back than that. You’re my mate. Soul to soul and flesh to flesh. Or we verra soon will be. Did you na’ read my note?”

He was trying to shock her. Tira moved her attention to the room behind him for several heart-calming moments, watching Ophelia and Aunt Adelaide and his men . . . then the three manservants posed in Coombs family uniforms, ready to serve refreshments. They were in the act of chatting. Smiling. All of it in the same room, yet nothing penetrating through to where the duke stood, taking her focus into some fantasy realm. She shook her head and met his gaze without blinking.

“How are you doing that?” she asked.

“What, lass?”

He smiled, his lips gapping slightly to allow tips of teeth to show: wicked-looking, sharp teeth. Tira moved her glance from there to his eyes and kept them there. She couldn’t control anything.

“It feels like we’re alone. Encased. While surrounded by others.”

“How do you ken ’tis me?”

“The same thing happened at the dress shop, didn’t it?”

“Pester me with this as well. Once we’ve wed. And have consummated our union.”

He wasn’t answering her questions. None of them. Tira tried another tack. “How old are you, Iain?”

His smile disappeared. He drew up straight. “Auld. Verra.”

“Give me a number. In years.”

He moved his eyes from hers, brought them back. Looked away again. “Twenty-five at last count,” he finally told the wall behind her.

“That is not very old.”

“To some.” He shrugged, there was another ripping sound, and he did another check of his clothing before returning his attention back to her.

“Why do you want . . . me?” Tira pulled in a breath and asked it.

“Ah, leannan. I doona’ fully ken why. All I ken is the fates have delivered on a promise. When I least expected it. Within this small hand lies my happiness.”

He encased her hand in both of his as he spoke, rubbing his thumbs along her skin without thought. Or if he gave it thought it didn’t show, although the vibration he put in play should be entirely noticeable, perceived, detected.

“Can you na’ feel it as well?”

She was feeling plenty. Starting with a shiver of emotion making him blur and ending with a deep thump of pulse from where her heart felt like it had fallen. Surprisingly, she still stood. Her legs hadn’t one halfpence of strength, but they still held her, upright and spellbound.

“I . . . need more time.”

“Why?”

“I don’t even know where you live. Where we’ll live.”

Tira pulled her hand free and he let her. He didn’t react as she stepped back a step and then another, until she sensed the wall. He just watched her with an unfathomable look, and then he answered.

“In a castle.”

“Truly?”

“Aye. MacAvee Hall. Or Castle Strathmore. Or there’s Blannock, Avendale. Glencairn. You have your choice. ’Tis all the same to me. As long as we wed.”

“That many?”

“As long as we wed.”

“Which do you prefer?”

Murmurs of voices were starting to resonate in the air about her, giving the impression of a crowd, speech, the tinkling of goblets.

“You stall and I will na’ allow it. We wed tonight. Midnight.”

“Can we not simply travel to one of these castles . . . and then wed?”

“Nae!”

His eyes flared. The candles all about the room seemed to have the same affliction, sending light that blinded her for a moment before it subsided.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

“I’m done with words, lass. I warn you.”

He had his head down, his shoulders forward, and was breathing so harshly she felt each of them launched across the gap, sending wisps of hair flittering about her forehead. It was far different for Tira. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t dare blink.

“Oh, there he is! And looking fairly discomfited at conversation with my niece. Your Grace.”

Aunt Adelaide split the space, separating him from Tira with her curtsy. She was joined the next moment by Ophelia, granting Tira a reprieve from him and the intent evident all over him.

Discomfited?

The woman had no grasp of men. Iain gripped both hands into fists, lifting his chest with breaths that had a ripping sound accompanying each one, and struggled with an emotion that had nothing discomfited about it. It was elemental, feral, immediate. And vast. Such full-vein rage belonged to his past, when once he’d walked the earth filled with the same lusts other men enjoyed. He was experiencing rage? Him? Iain MacAvee? And all because one woman told him nae?

It was incomprehensible. He didn’t know why the fates meant this one woman for him. And he didn’t know why every moment with her kindled long-dead emotions. All he knew was it happened and it was difficult to control. Iain shook in place with it, glaring over the other women at her.

“Your Grace?”

It was Grant at his right side, his twin on the other. Iain ignored both of them.

“We’re fair certain it meets with your betrothed’s approval. Miss Tira?”

“Wh-wh-what?”

She stammered when she spoke. Iain narrowed his eyes. She appeared to tremble, too, her eyes wide and dark while her lips parted to gasp in air. As if he’d harm her. The sight sent the oddest cooling sensation through him, tamping the burn. And that pulled him from the challenging stance he’d assumed without any awareness of it.

“The journey,” Grant continued, speaking for him.

“Journey?” the older woman asked.

“His Grace dinna’ tell you ladies?”

“Tell us what?”

His Tira shook her head. She didn’t take her eyes from his. The women separating them might as well be nonexistent, despite their chatter. Like little twittering birds.

“His Grace is needed at his estates. The journey takes four days.”

“That’s ridiculous. No coach travels that quickly.”

“And we’ve nothing packed.”

The women were answering again and Grant continued speaking for him. Tira didn’t move. She just stood there regarding him with that deep green gaze of hers, unblinkingly, sucking all of the anger away.

“His Grace’s yacht stands readied.”

“How extraordinary. We’re to travel by sea?”

“I’ve never been at sea. I hope I’m not the seasick type.”

Iain shook his head.

“We’re not going by sea?”

“You’re na’ going.” He forced his attention to the other ladies with an act of will before he lost all scope of reality and found his existence riddled with cloying, twittering women.

“You can’t possibly expect my niece to travel with you unescorted.”

“And without me,” Miss Ophelia added.

“Tira has nae need of an escort. Or companion. Or a maid. She’ll have me. All of me. On the morrow.”

He didn’t look to see what reaction Tira gave. It was enough the ladies before him gasped in unison.

“Tomorrow?”

That was the older one speaking. The younger hadn’t managed to shut her mouth enough to form words.

“Once the sun sets, we’ll wed. As bargained and now agreed. Tira?”

“Y-y-yes?”

She was still stammering, sending a tingle through the area where a heart had once been. Iain concentrated and set it to memory for enjoyment later. He’d never felt such a thing. Or if he had, he’d forgotten it. Another first . . . because of her.

“You have one more day. For readying.”

She looked at him for long moments before smiling with such a sweet expression, the instant stab of joy nearly unseated his head. Iain couldn’t contain it and forgot everything, until the smile faltered and disappeared. That’s when he realized he’d been grinning like a fool, displaying his fangs. He slammed his jaw shut with a motion that opened two slits in his lower lip, and he couldn’t meet her eyes. It was too soon. She was too skittish and he’d nearly forgotten centuries of training in hiding, protecting, lying.

Grant cleared his throat. “Now that everything’s settled, and everyone’s readied, we’ll be seeing to that escort. Ladies?”

Grant held out an arm for the older woman, leaving his twin with the one named Ophelia. Iain caught the swift glance of disgust before Lenn turned toward the door, guarded by Rory and the others, looking gentlemanly and civilized as they waited for Iain to escort his betrothed. Despite her fear and what she’d just seen.

There was nothing for it. Iain lifted his gaze to hers and held out his arm.

Chapter Seven

She’d fantasized about something like this. It had dimmed since her debut, but the experience of arriving at the Devonshire home on the Duke of MacAvee’s arm almost exactly matched that fantasy. Or it would . . . if she could banish the image of Iain’s teeth. Long, and tipped like fangs . . . belonging to a wild animal.

Tira shivered in the foyer, five steps above the Devon family grand ballroom, holding her cool satin skirts with an even colder hand and watching the reaction below them as heads turned and conversation stopped. Iain was at her right, her hand resting atop his bent forearm. The Earl of Devonshire had a major domo who possessed a large projecting voice. Iain and her names and titles were perfectly modulated, and with the silence descending below them, easily understood. It seemed everyone listened and watched as Tira Coombs, the spinster daughter of Earl Coxton-Coombs, made her entrance with her fiancé, Iain MacAvee, Duke of MacAvee, Earl of Glencairn and Blannock, chieftain of four clans, and owner of seven castles along with all surrounding lochs and glens.

Seven? Good heavens! What man needed so many? And for what reason? There were taxes to be paid on every building and land cultivated. The amount of funds and manpower needed to maintain a castle and surrounding lands was enormous. It had to be and she only had Coxton-Coombs Hall for comparison. And he owned seven? How was such a thing possible in these times?

“Centuries of conquest, lass . . . along with grand bargaining skills and a patience to match.”

She stumbled. Iain caught her perfectly with a tightening of his arm against his chest, holding her upright without even looking. Having her mind read and then being clumsy wasn’t part of her fantasy. She felt him move something beneath his sleeve, the knot of muscle teasing her fingertips, and then he turned to her. This time he caught the stumble exactly as she made it, since the steps ended before her descent.

“Doona’ fail me now, leannan.”

“Fail . . . you?” She was going to do worse if he breathed much more on her exposed neck, sending trills all the way to the soles of her feet with his whisper. She was going to lose her ability to stand, and then she might even swoon.

“With this purgatory you’ve set me to.”

“Purg . . . atory?”

“I’ve a room full of Sassenach and na’ one weapon on me.”

“We’re not at war.”

“A Scotsman is ever at war. And ever ready for one.”

“Truly?”

“Aye.”

“With the English?”

“They started it,” he replied.

“I’m English, Iain. Mostly.”

She got another breath touching her flesh and a resultant tremble in her knees. She tightened her grip on his arm and that just seemed to make the flesh she touched harder.

“Aye. But soon you’ll be MacAvee Clan.”

“What . . . will that make our . . . offspring?” And where were her wits? Tira felt the blush rising and worked at controlling it before anyone else spotted it. She couldn’t believe she was speaking of children! In a roomful of observers?

“Bairns?”

He drew back as if surprised. And then he looked stunned. And then his lips fought another smile. As if having children was an abnormal part of wedlock.

“You don’t want children? Heirs to all those castles?”

“Heirs?”

He said the word as if it were foreign.

“See? This is what our time together was to bring out. Our differences and the insurmountableness of them.”

“What differences?”

“Your aversion to children is a fairly large one, Iain.”

“I’ve nae issue with bairns.”

“Then why . . . ?”

Her voice trailed slightly as the setting started intruding, as if each blink dissipated a fog about them, allowing sensation and experience back in, until the ballroom and its occupants were clear and vivid.

She caught a glimpse in a mirror set to her right, her gown shimmering with rose-shaded highlights the candlelight picked out, while the coronet of braid about the crown of her head gleamed with russet tones. It was how she wanted to look . . . and if she could just get a peek at her escort. . .

Tira craned her neck to catch a glimpse of burgundy-shaded coat and then missed her opportunity as their hosts approached. Iain turned her toward them. The slight stab of disappointment was replaced at the jealousy in her hostess’s look, before the woman turned a completely different expression upward to Iain. The countess spoke first, sounding effusive, gushing, and slightly out of breath. Tira watched the woman tip her head in order to display her creamy rounded bosom. It was obvious the countess was proud of her figure, even without the frame of ecru lace and the sapphire necklace to draw the eye exactly there.

The experience was disconcerting and exhilarating at the same time. Tira recognized the emotions exactly as she experienced them. She’d never been the object of anyone’s jealousy. And then the gossipy Lady Higginswale appeared, her plump form encased in plum-shaded silk. Tira watched the Countess of Devonshire glance askance at that display while her husband bowed and then left them. It was rather like observing a play that no one else was watching.

“Your Grace.”

“My Lady . . . ?”

“Higginswale,” Tira informed him.

Iain put out his free hand and bowed slightly. For a moment Tira thought Lady Higginswale would pop right out of her bodice, and she caught her breath. But the dress held, and the woman was back upright. She didn’t even glance over to Tira. That was dismissive and meant to be.

“It’s lovely to see you out and about. Finally.” Lady Hig-gensale simpered it.

“And at my ball,” the countess inserted.

“Escorting the Coxton-Coombs ladies. Pardon us.”

Ophelia pulled into view on Iain’s far right, her hand on Grant’s arm. Or it could be Lenn. Tira couldn’t tell the twins apart and didn’t waste worry over it.

“And looking so presentable.”

“Yes,” Lady Higginswale added. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Scot looking so . . .”

“Refined?” the countess asked.

“Masculine,” came the instant reply. And then the woman looked directly at where Iain’s trousers weren’t disguising much of him, if anything.

Tira stiffened. In her fantasies, she’d been envied for the man at her side. She’d wanted a man that other women coveted. She’d never thought through the consequences. And Iain was oblivious or something. Not so the guardsmen about them. They were clearing throats and shuffling feet and grinning. As if having women fawn over Iain was normal. Tira narrowed her eyes and tightened her fingers and immediately felt the hard knot of muscle rotating beneath her digits.

“My thanks, ladies.” Iain’s reply came in a low tone that gave her shivers. She only hoped the other ladies didn’t have the same sensation.

“I’m having a gathering at tea on the morrow, Your Grace. You’ll be receiving an invitation,” Lady Higginswale said.

“No. Please. You must visit me for tea.” If their host had stayed at his wife’s side, he might’ve been able to prevent the low, evocative tone the countess used to proffer her own invite.

“His Grace has yet to finalize plans with me, ladies. I believe he’ll be unable to attend to anything save that,” Aunt Adelaide moved in, inserting right between Higginswale and Iain.

“I thank you for the invites, ladies. Truly. But I only take tea with one woman. My Tira.”

With that, Iain turned toward her, lifted her hand to his lips, and stole her ability to breathe, think, and do anything other than fall.

His Tira needed to do something other than look up at him with liquid pools of green that dominated his world. Everything on him reacted, in full view of a good section of high Sassenach society . . . and in these accursed trousers. Not that he cared. Society changed; morals and strictures adapted to each wearer of the crown; but he knew his Tira cared, and that meant he did.

Iain groaned and pulled her toward him more for concealment than the loverlike embrace it appeared. He noted only absently how she came as if she collapsed into him.

The slight blush that bloomed up her cheeks matched her gown and sent torment atop nuisance, and suffering atop that. She was such a beauty. Lush. Womanly. His loins weren’t the only thing craving her. His teeth were elongating at the glimpse of pulse beating in her neck. The perfectly formed skin shaded with an infusion of fluid.

“Perhaps . . . we’d be better served . . . dancing.” Her lips moved, drawing his eyes, but his ears let the words slide right through until she walked two steps from him toward where couples were rotating.

Dancing? Was the lass insane? He couldn’t dance. He couldn’t even walk. Iain held back, unmoving until she was forced to stop and turn back.

“Aren’t you escorting me?”

He watched her lips make those words as well, but couldn’t hear them over the rush of sound in his head. He shook his head. She frowned and that he didn’t want.

“I canna’ dance, lass,” he told her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen you. You dance divinely—I mean very well. You’ve danced with me. Five days ago.”

“What the duke means is he canna’ dance right now.”

It was Rory speaking for him. Grant and Lenn were busy keeping a tight rein on Tira’s female relatives, exactly as he’d tasked them. But Rory? The man known as a practical jokester? Iain swallowed, worked at tamping the near consuming desire and craving his body was experiencing, and wondering why, if fate had to give him these emotions back and the woman to cause them, why couldn’t the same fate send the ballroom into oblivion, the crowd into the same, and gift him with one bit of privacy and a bed? Or even one of the shadowed benches they’d placed along the wall.

Iain’s eyes went wide and his nostrils flared as he glimpsed one of the benches the moment he thought of it. It wasn’t possible but the plague of lust got even wilder. He held the air and concentrated, sending power to alter time, mute the surroundings, and encase him, allowing him to move without awareness. It was futile. Nothing worked. All he could do was tremble in place, locking every muscle as he fought feral and primitive need no maid should face, displayed with probable accuracy in the damn English trousers if the fabric’s tight grip on him was any indicator.

“Whyever not?”

Rory cleared his throat before replying. “Modesty, Miss Tira.”

“Wh-wh-what?”

She’d turned her attention to Rory, but that little stutter of hers tied Iain’s tongue worse. He moved his right hand to encase the one she had atop his left arm, and then worked at making certain his grip wasn’t enough to break bone. He pulled her closer to him, needing her skirts for concealment even if it came with torment over just a hint of her scent.

“When a man . . . uh . . . desires a woman, he . . . uh.”

There wasn’t a way to explain to her what tortures Iain was suffering, but it was almost amusing to hear Rory try.

“We—we have to do something aside from standing here waiting for more women to act . . . I mean, react. Is it always this way?”

“What way?” Iain had a voice but it was croaked. Harsh. She looked toward him, sent a blaze of fire right through his chest, and turned back to Rory.

“More times than na’,” Rory answered for him again. The snipe.

“Truly? You’re saying everywhere he goes women react like this?”

“Well . . . most times ’tis na’ an issue.”

“Most times?”

“His Grace does na’ stay about to endure the attention.”

“You are saying women react like this?”

“And some gents.”

“Rory.” Iain’s threatening tone needed work as the upward wink his man gave him clearly showed.

“Is that why he’s been absent?”

Iain struggled with the intoxicating sensation of her nearness, enduring a mingling of scents from the braid at the crown of her head just below his chin, the cool weave of her satin dress, the unmistakable aroma of woman; and where she’d tipped her head, he could see the heightened pulse in her neck . . . thickening, going a bluish shade with life fluid.

“Nae. The weather is to blame for that.”

“How so? It’s been beautifully sunny and warm. Unseasonably so, actually.”

“Exactly.”

Every word she uttered damned him further. Each inflection of her voice, every nuance of her face, the minute brush of her breath across where the cravat thing should be enough protection. Everything about this woman called to him and made him ache for her, increasing the desire and lust until the Sassenach-designed trousers grew to a painful level.

“Exactly . . . how?”

The swift glance from Rory should’ve alerted him if Iain had control over his body anymore. Or could gain it. Or find one bone in his body that wasn’t hungering.

“His Grace has an aversion to sunlight.”

“He does?”

“He canna’ abide its rays. ’Tis a family trait. Passed down. Sunlight brings on a massive rash, like near to death.”

“He has a-a-a weakness?”

Weakness? Only to her. In any other context, he’d take a man’s head for saying such. Anger filtered through the fog surrounding Iain, sending control where he hadn’t any. If he thought long enough, he’d be thanking Rory, rather than the opposite. Iain lifted his head from contemplation of the lass in his arms, focused on a large fireplace, and worked at finding a voice to stop his Honor Guardsman from saying more. Only these men knew Iain’s secret and the curse that followed him. As had their sires before them. They all took it to the grave.

“Never!” Rory’s voice sounded scandalized.

“I spoke wrong, then. I shouldn’t have called it that. I meant . . . he has a flaw.”

Flaw. Was that better?

“His Grace has nae flaws!” Rory was getting loud. Iain noted others starting to move closer in order to hear.

“Are all Scots this bristly? Quick to take offense? I merely mean . . . he isn’t perfect.”

“His Grace is more! He’s—”

“You’d best cease defending me, Rory, while you still have limbs.”

“Your Grace.” The man tipped his head in a nod.

“See to Grant and Lenn. They need to be relieved and the women still require escort and entertainment.”

“Both of them?” Rory made a face clearly showing his disgust of the assignment.

“Take Ulrich. Send the twins to the punch bowl. As a diversion.”

The lass waited for him to move his attention to her. She had her lips pursed into a sweet shape resembling a kiss. Iain moved his glance the moment he saw it.

“Diversion?” she asked.

“My Honor Guardsmen are specially chosen. From all other clansmen.”

“What would you have them do?”

“Stand about. Flirt with the ladies. Escort a few onto the dance floor. Engender interest and speculation.”

“Not start a fight?”

“What would give you that idea?”

“The more I’m around you, Iain MacAvee, the more I wonder.”

“About what?”

“You . . . and civility.”

There was that word again. Grant had been right. The lass craved civility. But being attired in English-tailored clothing and squiring her to a ball wasn’t it?

“It takes more than cloth to make a gentleman,” Tira told him.

She read his mind. Iain’s eyes went wide as he stared down at her. His heart thumped once and then stopped. And then started up again with a harder thump. He was afraid she’d notice it.

“Ah, lass. The more I’m around you, the more I thank the saints, the Father, the gods, and any and every other being responsible for the fate that brought you to me.”

“You just threatened your man with losing his limbs.”

“ ’Twas an empty one. Na’ in use since afore the last wars. He kens it.”

“What of this family . . . trait you suffer. Is that why you don’t want children?”

“I never said I dinna’ wish bairns. ’Twas your assumption.”

“You do want children, then?”

“Should the fates grant such.”

“Are you saying you can’t have children? Is this another family trait?”

He dipped his chin, clenched his teeth, and looked away. “I doona’ ken.”

“Oh . . . Iain.”

And with those two words, spoken with a hint of tears, she took his heart completely.

Chapter Eight

She’d invited him. He went early.

Lady Higginswale had a house resembling her: plump, with no sense of balance or structure. She even had material adorning her walls that was padded between the tacks that fastened it. Iain brushed a finger along the fabric of her bedchamber. The striped silk gave a hushed sound like a whisper. It made him yearn for thick stout castle walls built of stone and, where they’d divided the rooms, hard wood. Those walls had lines and permanency and structure. They weren’t padded with fabric. They were draped with tapestries woven by skilled hands over the centuries: stout, impregnable, harsh.

He approached the bed to look down at the white perfection of Higginswale’s neck and upper bosom, just glimpsed over the top of her lace-bedecked nightwear. Her veins called to him, exuding thick fluid with every beat of her heart. He could sense it, already taste it in his mouth . . . healthy, untainted by cheap gin and cheaper ales. Blood this thick and nourishing would be a welcome change from the sot-soaked vermin of the docks. Iain went to a knee and slid an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her toward him, ignoring the snores that touched his forehead and nose. His lips opened, allowing space for his canines to lengthen, tipped with a sharpness that wouldn’t even wake her. Or if they did, she’d find it ecstasy.

Exactly as he’d been invited to provide.

Iain held her limp body in position, the veins pulsing and dark against the skin of her throat, calling him, begging him . . . taunting him. It was ever the same with women, regardless of their station in life, their nationality, or their age. Every woman held a perfection of taste to her blood. When he’d first changed and noted the difference, he’d been a slave to it. That’s all he wanted and it made him harsher than necessary with the male providers, leaving more than one at death’s door. And then even that got old.

Iain spent his second century wandering the land and waxing philosophical. Women were a bane as much as his immortality was. They were put here to torment a man. Make him hard and lustful and in a state of pure longing even in the afterlife. So they could deny. It wasn’t until a ship wrecked on his coastline, bringing a slate full of men and women into his care that he got the opportunity for study. And tasting. And experimenting. That’s when he ascertained the true reason behind it.

Women held a touch of immortality in their very core. They were the bringers of life . . . and he was wasting time. He had Lady Higginswale in position, limp and prepared and ready, her skin touched with the slightest rash of gooseflesh where he watched.

Iain licked the center of his top lip, between his two spikes, and lowered his head, felt the reaction through his entire frame as everything male on him responded, his rod growing large, heavy, taut. As if in preparation for its own feast. His loins throbbed beneath his kilt, craving its own rapture from a woman....

And then something changed.

Iain stopped at the moment of piercing, his teeth scraping flesh and his entire body feeling primed and angered at the denial. The total recollection and then sensation of Tira flashed before him and then went right into him, making his arms tremble with the jolt of reaction. The intensity of it stunned him, lighting the interior of Lady Higginswale’s bedchamber like it was full daylight and not the hour before dawn. Iain settled the woman back onto her sheets before he dropped her and stood, backed from her, put both hands to his temples, and panted with the all-consuming vibration of need, want, and desire. For Tira . . . and her alone. It was overwhelming. A new curse. Everything about her assaulted him: her beauty, her scent, her warmth, her wits; her lifeblood.

Iain bolted for the chamber window, sailed the two-story drop to the cobblestones with a bound, before starting a run that churned his legs and ate up streets. Back to the docks and far from any other woman, the entire time realizing the extent of his Tira’s power. She’d ruined him for any other woman. Ever.

And he was ecstatic.

No day had ever loomed as lengthy nor passed as slowly. The morning fog wasn’t even on her side, sliding away into a weak watery daylight that dissolved any rain to a mist-laden consistency. Tira watched it from her chamber window between watching the hands on her clock and waiting. Her three trunks had been packed and picked up already by MacAvee Honor Guardsmen. She hadn’t recognized all of them, although Rory was easy with his quick wit and winks. Even Christa blushed. She knew it wouldn’t be Grant or Lenn assisting with the transport of her belongings to the duke’s yacht. It appeared they’d been given the dubious pleasure of entertaining her aunt and sister. Tira smiled. Iain was thorough. She had to give him that, even if he was leaving her alone.

At least she knew why now and sent another glance at the streets outside. The day wasn’t dark enough. It had to be the same reason his father chose a woman from an impoverished English family as Iain’s bride. The MacAvee family had a secret flaw, a weakness . . . an infirmity. Iain had no idea how it endeared him to her! No wonder he was so odd and secretive. From what she’d been taught of Scotland and its people, they lived in a harsh clime ruled by harsh decrees with deadly consequences. Weakness and frailty weren’t tolerated. It had to be immeasurably worse in their chieftain. He’d have to hide it behind eccentric behavior. Furtive movements. Excuses. And here she’d been a termagant over his absences.

Her afternoon tea tray sat undisturbed on the table, the dress she’d chosen for the ceremony hanging beside it. Christa was below in the kitchen overseeing the heating and transporting of water for Tira’s bath. The hip bath was already in place before her fireplace. They’d even lit a small blaze in the event the rain-filled day chilled her. All of it in preparation for her wedding in the Earl of Coombs chambers. Tonight. Tira glanced at the clock again and frowned. The hands didn’t appear to have even moved.

Would evening never get here?

She should sleep. Iain probably kept night hours. If she wanted to be at his side, she’d have to keep the same. But her bed already looked rumpled and tossed about from her last effort at it. Lying prone with her eyes closed started the most delicious shivers; and those just led to urges and tortuous cravings she didn’t understand. And that just ended with her tossing about until she gave up.

It was exactly the same as when she’d first gone to bed, three hours past midnight, once Iain brought her home and aroused all of the sensations with the lightest brush of his lips on her wrist. She could’ve sworn he’d touched her with his tongue! There was the slightest hint of a scratch on her skin where he’d touched, and the area continually throbbed without reason. It was quite possible he’d known what would happen and done it on purpose as punishment for making him wait another night.

Foolish. That’s how she felt. What else had he called her? Young? Naïve? Untried? All of them true. Which made this waiting her fault. And that got her to wondering if he suffered anything like this.

“Look what’s been brought, miss! From that dress shop on Turpin Street. We visited it the other day. You recollect? Oh my . . .”

Tira turned her head at the door opening to see Christa, her arms held high to keep a shrouded garment from touching the floor. Behind her were three footmen, all burdened with buckets. Without a word, they tipped their burdens and left, the hot water sending a warm, steamy aroma into the room. That’s when Christa hung her garment right beside the other, unwrapped it, and gasped.

It was the seafoam green silk, fashioned into a dress like nothing she’d ever seen. Where the empire waist was in fashion topped with a square neckline and cap sleeves, this design was cut completely different. There was a long crossed bodice, creating a well of draping to frame the bosom. Long sleeves tapered from gathered shoulders to an elbow length, while the skirt had been cut in the bias, looking like a swirl of foam-flecked water rose from the hem.

And everywhere it sparkled with diamante, catching what light the fireplace sent.

“Oh my . . .” Tira breathed it.

“You ever see the like?” Christa asked.

Tira shook her head and approached, mentally inventorying what undergarments she hadn’t already sent, and discarding them, one after the other. Her chemise had too much stitching on it. Guessing at the close fit of this gown, ridges of stitchery would show. Her crinoline would never fit beneath that skirt and would spoil the design of it. It was a losing exercise and she barely kept the disappointment from showing.

“Those ladies will be eating away inside with jealousy over this. You mark my words.”

“I can’t wear it.”

“What? After that man went to the expense and genius of having such a thing crafted? You’ll be ready for him promptly at sunset, or I’ll resign my position.”

“I’ve no undergarments.” Tira blushed. Set aside the instant thought of wearing none, and then she reached the dress, lightly brushing the silk just as she had at the shop.

“Not to fear, miss. He had that seen to as well.”

“He didn’t!”

She should be scandalized as Christa went back to the door. She wasn’t. There wasn’t room for anything other than pleasure. And warmth she insisted came from a steam-imbued room and not from any blush.

“I should wear the tam. Grant?”

“We’ll be indoors, Your Grace. Nae man needs a hat.”

“She wishes this civility you speak of. She even told me so.”

“Tie your hair back. That’ll suffice. Gives a better view of your face as well. She’ll like that.”

“How do you ken?”

Iain glanced over at Rory, who was cracking nutshells with his hand ax, making more than a few of them inedible bits from the hit.

“She’s well aware of your handsome face, my laird. Fain wanted to scratch a few eyes out last night, she did.”

“How do you ken that as well?”

“I saw it.”

“You watched her?”

Iain had Empirical pulled from the scabbard in the same movement he swiveled. Rory stopped in the motion of hitting a nut.

“I never said I watched her. I said I saw her.”

“This is not civil behavior, Iain.”

Grant again. Iain supposed only his second-in-command had the courage. Iain twisted the hilt until the chain design embossed onto it felt melded into his palm. He sheathed his blade and regarded them one at a time before ending at Rory.

“Verra well. You may explain.”

“The lass finds you handsome. Virile. Verra pleasing to the eye.”

“And how can you see all that?”

“’Twas obvious to the others about you. And obvious to me.”

“I asked you to explain, na’ quibble.” Iain toyed with the skeans along his belt next, flattening two that had rolled with the quick way he’d moved. He used the time to temper the instant emotion he wasn’t labeling rage but had no other definition that fit.

“The lass canna’ take her eyes from you. The lone time she does is when another woman eyes you. And then you should see the looks your Tira gives them. Fair hot enough to scorch.”

“She does?”

“Help me out here, lads,” Rory said.

“What the whelp says is true.”

“You’ve been watching, too, Sean? You?”

“You’ll na’ take my head for saying it, will you?” the leanest clansman asked, crossing his arms and moving a step closer to where Grant stood.

Iain regarded him for long moments before returning to fussing with his apparel. He was clad in MacAvee chieftain raiment: a feile-breacan, finely woven muslin shirt worn without sleeves, a lace placket buttoned onto the front holding a diamond stud, silver armbands at both wrists, and the same metal glinting off the hilts of his skeans and the sporran at his hip.

“Nae,” he finally replied.

“Good thing. I’ve only watched the lass because I was tasked to it. Her safety. Her protection. Her well-being. As you required.”

Iain nodded.

“Then trust this. She finds you verra pleasing to look upon. ’Tis nae surprise. All women find you thus.”

“They do?”

“ ’Tis a full-time occupation, keeping them from you. According to my learning, it always was.”

“Truly?”

“Your turn, Lenn.” Sean motioned to the man at Iain’s left.

“Sean is na’ saying anything false, Your Grace.”

“What times, Lenn?”

“Well . . . there was that ship that foundered a decade ago. You remember? ’Twas filled with captives all bound for sale in some eastern port. Probably destined for a potentate’s harem. They were all begging for rescue until spying you.”

“I dinna’ touch a one of them. Much,” Iain countered. He hadn’t, either . . . other than a slight bit of life fluid while they slept.

“You dinna’ have to. All a woman has to do is get a look at you and they’re smitten. I doona’ ken why, either.”

“You dinna’ pay much attention to His Grace in trousers then, Rory.”

“Verra funny.”

“You do recollect our difficulty with getting those lasses back on a ship bound for London?”

“They were a mite forward, weren’t they?” Ulrich spoke up.

“A mite?” Rory inserted. “I have scars from the nail raking one of them gave me as I hauled her off.”

“Perhaps you should speak sweeter words.”

“And what of the French comtesse who arrived, seeking an escape from the guillotine? According to my grandfather, she was still screaming when he drove off with her, tied into the carriage for good measure.”

“So that’s where she went,” Iain mused.

“And you recollect the shipwreck in ’82?”

“Barely,” Iain replied.

“According to the tale, every lass aboard went from weeping survivor to lovelorn wretch. In a matter of days. Just from your appearance.”

“My appearance?” Iain put a hand over his shoulder and grabbed the hilt of Empirical again. Lenn backed a step as it happened.

“My brother misspeaks, my laird. ’Tis actually said how your great-great-grandsire set their hearts aflutter. ’Tis a family trait, this . . . handsomeness. Passed down from son to son, as normal.”

Iain looked from Grant to his twin, released the sword, and felt powerfully sheepish. “Oh.”

“ ’Tis also said they had to be physically forced to leave Castle Blannock. En masse. Not one would leave without the others.”

“Ancient history, lads. Ancient.”

“And then, there’s that Spanish contessa.”

“Which one?” Grant asked for him.

“The one haunting the east tower at Glencairn.”

“That explains the weeping sound. Great story there. All about unrequited love.”

“Aye. ’Tis said she perished of a broken heart.”

“She took a fine time of it, then. She was nigh a century old.”

Iain did his best to ignore them and squelch his reactions: remorse, guilt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt those. It didn’t help that he’d asked for this listing, either.

“ ’Tis also rumored the MacAvee chieftain has a fondness for wenches with reddish-shaded hair. Exactly like Miss Tira. Mothers with daughters of that ilk make certain to cover them. In the event the duke is out and happens to see.”

“I’ve heard ’tis far worse if the aforementioned lasses happen to spot the duke. Then the mothers really have their hands full.”

Iain knew he flushed. He didn’t need to see it. He could feel sweat at his hairline. He disguised it with a move to bind his hair back into a queue. “Enough lads. Perhaps you could tell me something helpful.”

“Well . . . you did start it.”

Rory pointed it out. Iain regarded him for long moments before deciding to ignore it. He pulled to his full height and looked them all over in turn. They made an impressive sight, all attired in MacAvee plaid, all looking like perfect Scot gentlemen.

“Why is it this particular lass above all others?” he asked.

“We doona’ ken why, we’re only grateful.”

Iain pulled back at Grant’s answer. “For what?”

“Being there to assist with keeping the other lasses away. Have you na’ been listening?”

“Oh. Should I wear the English trousers, then?”

“Nae!”

Several voices said it together. Iain winked.

“You should actually be shrouded with a full sett . . . only that would simply show your size.”

“Why is that an issue?”

“The more you’re out and seen, the worse the attention gets and the more we lose sleep.”

“Lenn’s right, my laird. Trying to keep the lasses from you is akin to damming a burn with a bit of piss and peat.”

“Why . . . much more time in London and we’ll have a riot, and then we’ll have you in their Tower, and then we’ll have prices on our heads for taking their stone rampart apart to rescue you.”

Iain looked at his second-in-command and sobered. “I guess I’ll leave the trousers for another time.”

“We sail with the tide?”

“We’ll board ship the moment we wed. You keep the path open.”

“And grant me the aunt this time. That Ophelia has the mind of a bog fly.”

“Unfair. And as the eldest, I call escort rights,” Grant replied.

“By half a minute, you weasel. Half.”

“Wrestle for it.”

Iain ignored where the twins tussled, deciding the issue with strength while he worked at gathering it. He had to be strong enough to tell his Tira about his curse and await her decision. He wanted her with need that hampered each step, but he wanted her freely, with full knowledge, and of her own free will.

“Hold!”

The twins smashed into a chair, then another. Iain watched Sean sidestep them. He only wished there was someone capable of putting a hold on him.

Chapter Nine

Every candle had been lit in the earl’s chamber, sending light onto every available surface: her father’s wasted body beneath the cover, the servant’s worried expression, three MacAvee Honor Guardsmen attended as witnesses . . . and her. Ulrich was presiding over the wedding, looking and acting official, and much older than his thirty years. The twins were missing, their bruises telling why Lenn was escorting the sister. They had orders to keep those ladies occupied or lock them into their rooms. Either way, there wasn’t to be any disturbance that might upset his Tira.

And that included him.

But then she appeared, the silk skimming her frame as he’d known it would when he’d purchased it and ordered the design. All the while knowing it was self-destructive, but he hadn’t changed it. The torment was ceaseless in nature and ever increasing as well. Iain realized it as the barely leashed beast within him stirred, striving to release all the pent passion, power, and lust. The combination went to a threatening degree as he approached and took her hands within his, the contact adding to his ordeal and heightening its effect, as if the creature within him laughed at any effort of control and was determined to undermine it.

Tira had her neck craned, meeting his gaze with eyes as clear and bottomless as Loch Nyven, looking lit from some glow within and not simple candlelight. Iain’s suffering worsened the longer he delved into her eyes, his heart quickening, his loins thickening, and his frame trembling, and yet he was powerless to change it. It was impossible to keep hold of her and equally impossible to let go. Everything on her seemed to vibrate, as if calling to him, and no one seemed to notice as Ulrich started the ceremony.

The chieftain’s feile-breacan was woven of thin, barely tensile strands of wool to a drape that shouldn’t be a problem, and yet as Tira’s unblinking regard continued, the plaid grew hot, cloying, and thick . . . as restrictive as those Sassenach trousers. Words swarmed about his head, barely denting the incessant buzz sound in his mind, and he watched Tira open her mouth to answer.

“I do. I take Iain, uh Evan? James. And did you say Duncan as well? Yes?”

Her words carried laughter, and Iain pulsed in place although nothing on him moved. He worked at control, holding every muscle to a painful degree to keep the hunger for her at bay. Her laugh threatened all of it. He’d warn her if he dared as she continued adding to his distress by more words exchanged with Ulrich.

“Alexander, too? The fourth? Very well. All of those names. Him. I do take this man with all those names as my husband. Forsaking all others until death. Yes. Definitely. I do.”

Iain forced his gaze to where Ulrich stood, smiling broadly at both of them. Then came his names in order, all of them; a listing of his titles, all of them; and then his clansman listed all the responsibilities and honors and properties that came with his hand, although Iain didn’t hear much, if any, of it.

“I do.”

He choked on the vow. He was in a new hell. Or he’d been granted heaven. Or they’d joined the two. Iain wasn’t thinking as he pulled at her hands, stepping close in order to take their conjoined hands to his lips. He felt her gasp as he grazed teeth along her knuckles, bumping along the ridges and sending flickers all through him. In over two centuries he’d had little issue with the harassment caused by lusting for women, yet everything altered when he met her. Iain shifted forward, got the heavy solidity of his sporran against his loins, and hoped no one else noticed how it moved, flashing silver glint off the embossed edges.

He was drunk and hadn’t touched a drop of whiskey, dizzy like excessive battle once caused, confused as if he’d taken a blow, and this lass was at the center of it. He was certain of it. It was obvious with the way she clung to his hand, as if she needed it for balance and stability. Balance and stability ? The thought was laughable. The lass rocked his world off-kilter so much he shook. And then he realized why, as want and need and absolute desire worked away at his control, clouding the scene. Iain tightened every muscle in search of control. More . . . Harder . . .

He heard words through the fog that seemed to envelop her, highlighting and showcasing her perfect features and lush womanly curves. It was a fog of his creation, imbued with her scent as it surrounded and then impaired. Iain swallowed hard, heard the words pronouncing them joined: husband and wife. Then he heard something about how he should cease standing there like a Druid stone and kiss his bride.

Kiss her? Had Ulrich gone mad? Iain didn’t dare kiss her. He was barely keeping his powers at bay. He didn’t know what might happen if they got released. He was terrified to find out. Him. Iain MacAvee. Creature of doom. Afraid.

He felt and heard her pulse increase, gaining cadence and volume until it dragged his into rhythm with it. She lifted her lips, sweetly pursed and holding every form of rapture. Iain groaned as the beast flexed against its leash. He pulled her right up to his chest and lowered his head to brush his lips with the lightest touch against hers.

And then she moaned.

Iain latched on to skin, feeling his teeth elongate despite everything he used to stay it. There was just this perfection of moment, encased and defined . . . for them. Her palms were flat against his chest for a buffer. It didn’t work. Iain could feel and sense every bit of her heart as it raced. Time ceased to function. The room ceased to exist. Nothing mattered save her breath as it touched on his cheek . . . his nose . . . his upper lip, her touch moist as soft skin got bruised beneath his; and then he tasted the absolute nirvana of her blood as it flicked against the cage of muscle and will he had about the beast with a temptation no man should ever have to endure and survive.

Nae!

Tira’s eyes flew open as Iain pulled his head back to roar a guttural word toward the ceiling just as both casement windows burst open, sending gusts of rain-filled air into the chamber. Candles extinguished, plunging the room into darkness. Tira heard her father’s garbled exclamation and a thud as his servant dropped to the floor, and from far into the depths of the house, what sounded like screams of rage and anger from Aunt Adelaide and Ophelia. Then she was fully in Iain’s arms, moving out the door and into the hall as if every sconce held a torch and it wasn’t complete blackness. If she had any experience with the absolute wonder of what had happened to her with his kiss, she’d have done more than cling with her arms about his neck and her face pressed tightly to his shoulder.

“Sean, fetch Grant and Lenn! Rory, see us to my ship and doona’ waste another moment. And Ulrich? If you ever do anything so stupid again, I vow—”

She barely felt his lunge into a carriage before speaking the punishment Ulrich might earn, then she experienced the rapid sway of a vehicle in high motion combined with the harsh rhythm of breaths Iain huffed continually and with absolute precision all over where the bodice left her skin exposed. His ship was impossible to see through the fog-warped dock, but without stopping, Iain jumped from the carriage, crossed the gangway, a deck, and then entered a cabin, with doors shutting behind him seemingly of their own accord.

And then he set her unsteadily to her feet and pulled away, holding his hands over his face while he shoved more harsh breaths through his lips. And with them came words.

“Forgive me, leannan. I’m a fool and a wretch.”

“Iain—”

“Nae! A wretch and then a fool! For what I’ve done! Doubly so for na’ stopping—Hellfire! Get this ship underway !”

He yanked the door open to yell, sending waves of sound with it. Tira heard the noise of running feet, a grinding clatter, shouts and hollering from somewhere in the night, and she was almost afraid Iain meant to leave her if she didn’t do something to stop him.

“Iain?”

She said it softly and got a stiff back and then a shut door. Iain turned toward her and appeared to hunch his shoulders slightly, as if expecting a blow. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, either.

“Aye?”

“What . . . have you done?”

He pulled in a huge breath, looming so large he nearly touched the decking above his head, which was where he appeared to be looking. “I’m na’ entirely certain I can tell you.”

“But . . . can you do it again?”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then he lowered his eyes to hers, and the moment they met, the lantern behind her flared, sending light onto all of him, while superimposing her shadow on the wall behind him. A blink later the light dimmed, returning her indistinct shadow to one caused by the faint golden glow basking on wooden walls.

“Yes. Like that. Just . . . like that.” She was panting and the words revealed it. Oddly, it seemed to create the same exact reaction in him.

“Leannan—” he began.

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“This leannan. You promised you’d tell me after our consummation—”

He swore in Gaelic. She understood it perfectly. Her eyes went wide. The light behind her flared again. Dimmed.

“You promised, Iain.”

As a temptress, she was going to need work. Tira realized it as he paled and actually took a step back to the door at the low tone she used. His answer was garbled and difficult to understand and sprinkled with intermingled Gaelic and English words, coming in spurts with every ragged huff of air he used. It was visual and doing erratic things to every nerve ending in her body.

“I promised a lot of things, leannan. And I’m vexed. I’ve words that need saying. Truths you need to ken. You have the right to it.”

“Now?”

“Lass . . . please. I ken you need civility and gentlemanly behavior. I’ve such little grasp of either, and nae control at the moment. I’m terrible afeared if we touch, I’ll—”

“Kiss me, Iain.”

“What?”

The high pitch of his voice surprised him, matching the width of his eyes as he noted where she’d moved and how she’d done it. If he looked closely enough, he’d note all the gooseflesh roving her skin, creating the most delicious shivers. She licked her lip and tasted blood and wondered when she’d bitten it.

“I said—”

He put a hand up, stopping her as much as the tremor that scored him did. “Lass, please. Dinna’ you hear me? I’m afeared of what might happen if I touch you again. . . .”

“Yes?”

Another step put her at where his hand was still out, defensively, the sensation as vivid as if it touched her. Tira stood, her entire being attuned to the vibrations emanating from just one open palm.

“There’s nae going back! You doona’ ken! I may na’ be able to keep from taking . . . and I—Sweet mother of—”

The rest of his words disappeared into his intake of breath as the ship got underway, the sway rolling Tira right into contact with the hand meant to stay her, and that got her pulled into an embrace of trembling flesh-covered iron. Her feet left the floor and she barely felt it as Iain swung her into his arms, lowered his head, and gave her the kiss she’d asked for.

The lamp flared, sending brightness through her closed eyelids. It competed with the arc of lightning racing through her, spreading a hum of anticipation in its wake. Tira felt him moving across wood that pounded with each step, and then the cool crispness of sheeting met her back, her shoulders, her upper arms. The green silk filmed her skin as an afterthought, pulled away by one hand while the other held her head in place, her nose next to his, her lips matched to his, building a roar of elevated sound all through her with every licking and sucking motion he made.

Tira undulated sinuously against the smooth material at her back and rasp of wool everywhere else, impatience and something else feeding her movements, something indefinable and raw, basic and elemental . . . and orchestrated with perfection by her new husband, Iain MacAvee.

Her fingers roved him, delving beneath buttons and around heavily woven leather belts and fastenings, pulling up on his shirt and yanking down on the plaid until she found flesh. The sensitive skin of each fingertip trilled along ridges of muscle, about the thick ropes of brawn in his belly, all over his chest, belly, shoulders . . . learning the shape, texture, and movement of them before she wrapped as far about him as she could, not even noting the wool getting yanked completely away, matching rock-hewn male to quivering female, skin to skin and heat to heat.

Thick, hard male slid along her belly, went between her thighs, teased along her core, came out again onto her belly, tendering heat and scorch and energy. Everything on her craved and demanded more and she didn’t know how to request it. And then knew she didn’t have to. The grunt accompanying each motion promised more as he moved his body to some primeval rhythm . . . sliding his maleness between her thighs, tormenting and teasing the wetness, back along her belly again, until Tira beat at his back with frustration and ache and absolute wantonness. A hand enveloped her hip, filled with her buttock, lifting her into position about him as he continued his massage, building passion that grew with every breath she pulled in and huffed back out.

Tira’s legs wrapped about him, assisting her shoves upward, every fiber of her begging, pleading, sobbing with all-consuming fever. And then he shifted, lifting onto his free arm, putting chiseled male into view, his rod readied and at her apex, where everything that was quivering and suppliant about her strove for what he’d prepared her for. Gaelic words escorted the slide of his lips, licking down her chin and to her throat. Tira clung, lunging up at him in unrhythmic surges, begging him to fill the throbbing need, thirst, and want.

“Leannan . . .”

“Yes, Iain . . . yes. Now. Iain, please? Now—”

Something stabbed into her neck at the exact moment he plunged through her maiden wall, cursing her with stinging and fiery sensation in both places at once. Tira went stiff with pain and hurt. They echoed in the cry she made as it reached the planking above them, but when it filtered back down, it was filled with ecstasy and rapture and bliss. The next held more of the same. Or perhaps it sounded of the absolute wonder he created with every thrust of his body . . . complementing the absolute ecstasy emanating from her throat.

Again. Over. Deep. Full. Sucking and taking from her neck while giving and receiving at her woman-place. Tira’s erotic cries filled the cabin, blending with the light that intensified and dimmed so vividly it was seen even through clenched eyelids.

“Ah . . . lass. Love. Tira. My leannan . . .”

Iain’s whisper released his mouth from her flesh, and his hand pulled on her hair, forcing her chin upward to see what should be bare wood ceiling when she opened her eyes. It wasn’t. Tira watched the perfect vision of clouds, red hued and dark at the edges, as they alternately brightened and then dimmed with every flare of light. Iain scraped a path to one ear, lapping at skin with the same rhythm he used to pleasure and possess her, each lunge getting fuller and heavier and harsher, in perfect sync with the increased thunder of his breathing.

“Leannan . . .”

He carried pleasure with his thrusts and ecstasy with his movements, and the sensations combined, warped, realigned. Still Iain plunged, pulled back out, plunged again. Over and over and over until the combination of wonders collided into such rapture, Tira’s mouth opened in another burst of amazement and joy. She felt him lifting from her on both arms, gifting her more view of glistening male nakedness, rippled with muscle and taut with seeming agony. She couldn’t keep from such splendor and ran her fingers about him as he arched upward, keeping his loins deep into hers. The skin she touched darkened, flushing as he sent the longest, most visceral groan into existence all about and over them. It reverberated in waves as he ran out of air and ended with soblike noise. The sound raised bumps along her skin and brought tears that flooded her eyes. Tira blinked rapidly, and when that didn’t work, she shoved a hand across her eyes to keep her sight fixed on the beauty that was Iain as he held himself taut, trembling in place as his body pulsed deep within her.

“Oh . . . sweet.”

He didn’t finish the whisper but he didn’t need to. If it was even a small measure of what he’d given her to feel, it was heaven, amazement, absolute divinity. The cabin darkened oddly, as if time passed and the lamp was low on fuel. The dark about her vision kept intruding, too. That just wasn’t fair! She wanted this experience. She wanted to experience and see it and memorize it, so it would be forever hers . . . all of it. That’s why she was wide-eyed and watching as he shook his head atop his shoulders before lowering his chin to look down at her, displaying what could only be blood on his lips and chin, and the sharp tips of canine fangs. And then everything went dark.

Chapter Ten

“That word . . . leannan. It means sweet. Or sweetheart . . . or just heart.”

Iain forced his head to roll toward her, basked in what little light the lamp still projected. Her green eyes were darker, the lashes fuller and more lush, or something, while the dark red shade of her lips was spliced by the tips of sharp canines. She looked amazing, feline and erotic. She blinked, putting a shine to those eyes as she watched him from atop his right arm. Her head was cradled just above his bent elbow, numbing his arm all the way to his fingers. Iain licked dry, chapped lips and shuddered with a chill. He’d rarely been as weak and fatigued, useless as a newly birthed bairn and twice as defenseless.

“Aye,” he whispered.

“How do I know that?”

“I . . . gifted it . . . to you.”

The words were spliced with weak pants of breath. Iain searched with his free hand for cover; the bed sheet, his feile-breacan, hell, even her silk gown would assist with muting some of this frailty! His fingers found nothing useful; even the muslin beneath them felt melded into position despite his tugging. And it was his fault. He’d had to open a slit on his wrist and share fluid with her. He had to! She was dying even as he’d done it, forcing his tainted lifeblood through her lips, draining him as it changed her. He’d never changed another human before. He hadn’t known when to stop her, and then he hadn’t the strength. He was in luck that she’d done it, apparently sated as she moved . . . rolling from him to rest atop his elbow. Where she’d stayed.

All of it happened what seemed hours ago, while he paced his heart and measured his breathing, and worked at rest. Using the time to will strength into his body to regenerate what little fluid she’d left him. So he wouldn’t take any of it back.

“Gifted? How? And with what?”

She was getting annoyed with him. It sounded in her voice. What he wouldn’t give for one drunken sailor! Iain huffed a breath of amusement, rolling his lips with it. He’d be forced to use the livestock in the hold long before they reached the coastline below MacAvee Hall. He’d already been there if he hadn’t wasted time existing, reliving each and every bit of fulfillment he’d experienced with her. He still might visit the hold . . . if there were any hours left afore dawn and if he had the strength to reach it.

“Iain?”

“I’m listening,” he replied.

“I didn’t ask if you were listening. I asked for an explanation of this gift.”

She lifted her head, giving him the sting of renewed feeling in the limb, although it was slow moving with every shallow thump of pulse left him. He needed rest, recuperation, blood . . . anything other than interrogation and truths. There was a decided trip of his heart as she went to her knees beside him to look down at him, every portion of her exuding sensuality and pleasure. She reeked of wanton abandonment and sexual satisfaction. Nothing seemed hidden despite the shielding of her hair. He’d known she was his mate, he just hadn’t thought through what that meant. He licked his lips again, but it did nothing for the dryness.

“Iain, I don’t understand. Help me.”

“My sire . . . dinna’ raise a fool,” he replied.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Only a fool . . . tussles with . . . an armed woman.”

“Armed?”

Puzzlement shaped her eyes into narrowed slits, the lashes shielding their beautiful green color.

“Aye.” He licked his lips again and got the same dry feeling.

“I don’t even have my clothes.”

She crossed her arms before her, as if that worked better at concealment than the thick curtain of her hair. And she blushed. Color suffused her skin, sending Iain into such a vast chasm of need that he jerked with the task of reining it in. It was too soon. She wasn’t ready. He still hadn’t told her—

“What is it, Iain? Iain?”

Soft whispers filtered over him, accompanied by the feel of her hands, roving his chest, shoulders, belly . . . her fingers sliding along flesh that craved the touch. Despite everything, Iain felt his groin stirring, taking the fluid he needed just because she was near.

“Tira.” The name was ground through clenched teeth and sounded like it.

“You’re very handsome, Iain. Manly. I—”

She pulled her lower lip into her mouth and held it with her teeth, putting spikes on view. Iain watched them lengthen with trepidation, pulling in and tightening everything on his frame to endure whatever she deigned to do to him.

“Truly beautiful.”

“Men . . . are na’ beautiful, leannan.”

“Oh, but you are. No wonder the women go crazed around you.”

She’d changed to the Gaelic tongue, making the words more erotic and stimulating. His senses assimilated it while her fingers continued driving him mad.

“Or . . . perhaps it’s how truly masculine you are. Large. Oh my. Hard. And I’m new to this.”

His ears were abuzz with light-headedness, while everything male on him was getting primed and prepared and readied. She might be a novice, but he was already in severe trouble.

“Lass . . . you must . . . stop.”

“It’s my wedding night, Iain.”

“I’m na’ certain . . . I can perform . . . again.”

“This part seems certain.”

Iain groaned as she wrapped both hands about him, earning a full twinge into her palms and a groan of torment from his parched throat. He felt his own teeth lengthening as the beast within stretched, exhibiting its power and its thirst. He barely heard her next words.

“I mean . . . I don’t truly know, but I think—”

“You ever hear of the Black Death?” Iain interrupted her, the words strangled and brutal sounding.

Her hands stopped. He waited one heartbeat before she answered, and since it was stuttered, it affected the next pulse beat, making it almost painful with the thud. He wasn’t strong enough for this!

“Y-y-yes?”

“And . . . the death dealers that plagued the land? You ken them?”

She giggled. Giggled? And then she resumed her vicious stroking of his man-part, sending his heart rate into such stridency, it actually pained.

“Oh, Iain . . . you talk of death and ancient history? Now?”

“I dinna’ believe, either. Once.”

He answered the ceiling high above them, shadowed and indistinct with loss of light, while his body fought an onslaught of need that elongated and defined his teeth farther. Tira was new to this. She didn’t know the power of her new existence. She didn’t know what she was doing to him. But that didn’t stop it, and it certainly didn’t stop her.

“Nice . . . oh, Iain. Verra, verra nice.”

He groaned. The slip of tongue she made into his own dialect toyed at his ear, sending tendrils about his senses. Enwrapping him. Binding him. He couldn’t seem to move from enjoyment of her caress . . . and she did it all without use of even a cover. Lips grazed him, then a tongue, before a skim of burn lit through him as she sliced at an inner thigh, lapping at the flesh. Iain grabbed her arms and hauled her into view before she took everything he had left. His arms shook as he watched her lick at the blood on her lip. And then she blew a kiss through the air separating them. His tongue loosened and he told her.

“Lass . . . you need ken this! I’m one of them!”

“I need you, Iain. All . . . of you. In me. Now. Please, Iain . . . now.”

Hellfire and damnation!

Iain could describe both as Tira slid her body along his, torturing him with her skin and the promise of her sheath wrapped about where he was pumping with little lunges his body made without any effort on his part.

His lips parted and he hissed, giving her a full look at his elongated spikes. He watched her glance there and back to his eyes, a flicker of fright deep within hers, interfering with the haze of sensuality wrapped all about her. But it was too late. He’d lost control. Again.

“Iain . . . I don’t—”

“Trust me, lass, you will!”

He surged up at the same time he pulled her downward, latching onto her throat with the same motion he used to bring her down atop him, gaining hot wetness wrapped about where he most needed it. The beast within him flexed, roaring with the instant influx of lifeblood, and then he felt the prick of her teeth into the flesh beneath his ear.

Everything went absolutely wild. Primitive. Iain thrashed against her in seeming agony and she held to him. He rolled with her, pumping as the mattress shifted beneath them, and then toppled onto the floor, taking them with it. She met every one of his thrusts as he filled and refilled her, her loins matching him move for move, her legs wrapped so tightly about him it worked as a spring. Iain unlatched his teeth from her puncture, licking to seal the wound and felt her do the same. But nothing stopped the complete and total abandonment of where they were joined. Connected. Thumping into each other over and over until the tightness in his chest, back, and loins was impossible to contain. That’s when glory erupted, ripping such complete and total ecstasy through him that he tossed his head back and yelled of it, ignoring how the deep throbbing tones of the beast burned his throat and tore through his chest.

The sound echoed through the cabin. Died. And then he looked down at this woman; Tira. His woman . . . his mate. Iain watched her view the blood coating him, assimilating and deciding it. Their blood . . . shared. Combined. His arms trembled slightly before they gave, collapsing him onto the mattress beside her, and then he felt her shudders. Like laughter . . . only . . .

She isn’t sobbing, is she?

Iain rolled his head, using his forehead for the fulcrum, solidly terrified of what he’d see. Then he blinked her into focus. He was wrong. She wasn’t crying. She was laughing, silently and with childish glee. She laughed? She knew what he was, and what he’d made her, and she laughed? For the first time since he’d met her, Iain relaxed completely and within moments he was unconscious.

A sunbeam brought him to awareness, singeing his shoulder as it speared the floor. The brightness stunned and then got action. Iain grabbed Tira to his chest, dragging her as he scuffled beneath the bed, inserted his forefinger into a knothole, and jerked up on the hidden door that led to his space. He swiveled to take the brunt of the landing. The drop wasn’t far, four feet . . . exactly as he’d specified. Yet it felt farther. They hit with a thud atop his pallet, his ancient pallet, the one he’d had when he’d first turned. Although back then it had been plump with horsehair and straw and not flat with age. Iain groaned with the loss of air. The door thumping shut hid it. The woman in his arms and atop him didn’t do more than sigh, softly brushing his chest with air, and then she snuggled into the well he created at his side.

His arms tightened as did the band about his heart as he realized the full power of love. He’d failed his strongest vow—never to turn another without their full awareness of the deed and the consequences, yet nothing on him felt remotely guilty or anything other than aglow with rapture. Why . . . if he knew his maker’s name and location, he’d even thank him. Iain lay back, looked over the seams of floor above his head, and shut his eyes for rest. With his woman’s appetite, he was going to need all of it he could get.

Chapter Eleven

The smell of food woke her, wafting through to scent the air; the pungent aroma of roasted beef and creamed gravy mixed with the equally mouth-watering aroma of warmed, fresh bread . . . topped with a pat of butter. Tira lifted her head in appreciation and sniffed. It felt like weeks since she’d eaten, and her belly growled with emptiness while her mouth filled with moisture.

It was night dark, but that was odd unless she’d slept the day away. Tira stretched and moved a bit from the cool feel of what could only be Iain’s skin. The sensation was a bit like sleeping beside polished alabaster marble. She shivered and pulled into a sit, sliding her buttocks along texture that resembled woven hemp or rough-finished wool. She spread her arms out, looking for covering. Useless. There wasn’t a stitch of fabric anywhere. She was hungry and she was tired and she was chilled. And it was dark and foreboding. Cramped. Like a tomb. Tira grazed her hands along the pallet thing beneath her, reached bare plank floor, and within inches, her fingers met polished wooden wall. She ran her hands along the wall to a spot just above her head, where the delicious smell of a roast beef supper was getting overlaid by the sounds of someone eating it. And that angered her.

Tira narrowed her eyes and glared at the blackness, and from the exact spot came a glow. Feeble at first and then growing, it spread until the haziest bit of light carved out Iain’s form for her and then her own. As well as the finite amount of room they shared. She blinked and the light disappeared.

“Iain?”

The name hadn’t left her throat before she was seized, pulled into an embrace resembling iron, her mouth covered while Iain hissed a word at her ear. Tira’s heart ceased beating with the fright, and then restarted with a thud that hurt. It was impossible for anyone to move as quickly as he had, or the darkness warped reality.

“Hush!”

She nodded slightly and the hand at her mouth eased. It took another moment before she could pull enough moisture into her mouth to swallow. And then breathe. It felt like Iain matched her, taking his own breath. His skin was growing warm, too. And then he was running a tongue along her shoulder, making her scrunch it with the tickle.

“What . . . are you doing?” She barely made a sound with the whisper. He returned it in kind.

“Keeping you occupied.”

The touch of amusement feathered across her skin with the reply.

“Why?”

“Seems a pleasant way to spend an eve. With my bride. Whilst I await the sunset and our sup.”

“But . . . that’s not fair.”

“Nae?”

“I’m hungry now.”

His tongue lifted from her as she watched the compartment brighten again. This time a heady, golden glow infused it.

“You’re doing that?”

“Aye.”

“You truly can control . . . light?”

“I can illuminate in stages, but it takes from me.”

“How?”

“That is just one of my powers, love. One.”

Tira swallowed again, wondering at that vagary of nature as she nearly choked. Footsteps echoed across the floor above them and then the door shut. She felt the man about her relax. He eased the confine of his arms and legs as the light dimmed to a portion of before, making the planking about them indistinct and faint even when she squinted.

“Can I have just a small spot of tea? Maybe a scone? Or a bit of bread?”

“There will na’ be any left.”

“There won’t?”

“Na’ if Grant follows orders, as always.”

“You order him to eat in your chamber?”

“And take the leavings when he finishes. Or pitch it all overboard. Must have been a verra good sup if he ate it, since he has his own to now partake of.”

“Your man eats your meal for you? And you allow it?”

“I canna’ do it justice, leannan.”

“That’s ridiculous. Just look at the size of you. You eat. You have to.”

“My size does na’ change. Ever. This is what my Honor Guard works to avoid.”

“Your size?”

“Rumor and speculation over such a thing. And how the years fail to dent any of it.”

Tira shook her head to clear it. It didn’t work. Everything felt muddled and fogged. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Safe.”

“Where exactly is safe?”

“Beneath my cabin. In a chamber I had constructed and designed. In secret and with a fortune in bribe money.”

“Why go to all that trouble?”

“So my Honor Guardsmen can partake of my meal and na’ one soul is the wiser that it was na’ me at that table.”

“Maybe he didn’t take it all. Maybe he left a slice of bread?”

“Bread? You want bread?”

“It smelled heavenly, didn’t it? And I’m famished. I haven’t had as much as a crust since sometime before our—uh . . . wedding and—”. . . the consummation that followed. Her words dribbled off in recollection of how he’d shown her absolute heaven. And had it been twice? Last night was a darker blur than the space about them. It had been twice. She’d started the second one. Tira blushed. That made everything moist and warm in the enclosure where it had been chilled and inhospitable.

“You can smell it?”

“What?” Tira had to keep her thoughts on what he said and not what he made her feel. But how was she to do that when everything about him seemed created to heighten and enhance? No wonder women acted as they did around Iain MacAvee. She was in danger of doing it herself.

“Bread.”

“Oh, yes . . . bread. Of course I smell it. You can’t?”

“Na’ unless I want to. All I smell is blood, leannan. That . . . and lust. Yours for me is particularly noticeable.”

“Of all the odious, egotistical, arrogant—”

“Are you saying ’tis untrue?”

Tira turned her head and put her cheek against his chest and listened to the solid thump of his heart, oddly mimicking hers. Her tongue felt larger, thick, useless. She bit at it and felt the minute sting of a cut before shaking her head slightly.

“That’s what I thought you’d be saying,” he finally answered.

“I don’t understand, Iain.”

“I dinna’ ask for this prowess, Tira. For a man of a score and five, though, ’twas a true gift. At first.”

“At first?” She stiffened slightly.

“Anything done to excess becomes a bore. And then a bane. And then a burden. Trust me.”

“To excess?” She choked on the word as one hand curled into a fist.

“Anything.”

“You might not want to say another word, Iain.” As a threat, it didn’t do what she wanted. He simply sent a breath of possible amusement all over her exposed flesh.

“You canna’ fight it, lass. Well . . . you can, but will na’ change anything.”

“And you’ll be finding yourself locked out of my chamber quite often if you don’t cease speaking, Iain Evan Duncan and-a-few-other-names MacAvee.”

He pulled back. “I doona’ ken you at all, and I’m na’ fond of your track of thinking.”

“Iain—”

“Hush. And listen. I’ve got words that need saying and deeds I canna’ undo. And forgiveness that I dare na’ even ask for.”

“Forgiveness?”

He nodded. She felt it. And then he started talking again, the words low and clear through where her ear rested on his chest.

“The attraction of the lasses was always there. I dinna’ ask for it. I dinna’ want it in particular, but I dinna’ fight it. What man would?”

“Iain—”

He ignored her low-toned outburst. “ ’Tis said all MacAvee lairds have this appeal. It came from birth. Passed on from sire to son. Even with the scars I suffered in battle. The lasses would na’ leave me alone. ’Twas almost a curse.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I could na’ attend the slightest fest without an issue. There’s a sonnet written about the fight that took place on May 1 back in 1536. The laird’s wife had a grand lust and was na’ averse to showing it. And acting on it. That fight burnt down Glencairn’s great hall. Took a century until I got the deeds and had it rebuilt.”

“Did you say 1536?” Tira’s voice accurately portrayed her disbelief even if he couldn’t see her expression.

“Aye. I was na’ even a score in age yet,” Iain continued. “That was na’ the first of my troubles, either.”

“I don’t want to hear any more. Really. You can cease regaling me with nonsense. I’ll wait for my supper. I promise.”

He ignored her again. “The worst incident was when I came to the attention of the wife of the Douglas of Loch Nyven. She was a right bonny one. Ripe. Inviting.”

“Don’t you understand English, Iain? I said I don’t want to hear.”

“I should have been forewarned. Na’ of her husband. He was used to being a cuckold. I should have been told of bloody Stewart, King James V!”

“The king?” The words were deadpan as disbelief had gone right over to complete doubt and skepticism. Tira closed her eyes. It was better than rolling them.

“How was I to ken he’d taken her for his mistress? Hell, he already had two of them at Edinburgh right beneath the queen’s nose!”

“You truly expect me to believe this, don’t you?”

“That’s why I was at Solway Moss. I was ordered to be there. Fighting for the king. As punishment.”

“Solway Moss?”

“Aye. November 24 it was. 1542. Cursed fogged day. See, your King Henry VIII declared war but sent the Duke of Norfolk and his deputy Sir Thomas Wharton to fight his battles for him. It was another defeat for the Scots. One of many, curse them. Doona’ you ken your own history?”

“I have to admit, Iain. One thing you do is spin a grand story.”

“You doona’ believe me.”

“Of course not.”

“I dinna’ at first, either.”

“At . . . first?”

“Aye. At first you fight it. You try and behave as normal. You eat as you used to. Will na’ matter. Roasted meat. Bread. Even ale. Na’ a bit of it will stay in your belly. Turns to poison if you try. You believe you can walk about like other men—in full sun . . . and you canna’. The sun’s rays are worse than a burn from a fire pit.”

“You’re trying to tell me you’re three hundred years old. Is that it?”

“You miscalculate. I am na’ three hundred. I am two hundred ninety-eight. Unless you add in the score and five I was when that wretch turned me. That would make me a mite over three hundred.”

“Iain, please—”

“Is it so verra hard to believe, leannan? ”

“In a word, yes. Double yes. And then add a third. This is impossible to believe.”

He gave another sigh. “You’ve heard of the Black Death?”

“You asked that last night, didn’t you?”

He nodded. She felt it. “I was trying for a bit of honor. Restraint. I dinna’ wish to turn you unless you agreed.”

“T-t-turn me?”

“I love you, Tira. You believe that?”

The solid thump of his heart toyed at her ear, while the legs she perched atop had nothing cool about them anywhere. They still resembled iron, although it was flesh-wrapped metal now, while he moved a hand into hair that had to be a nest of snarls. Tira reached a hand to smooth it and collided with his. And that just got hers snatched.

“Y-y-yes.”

“Your little stammer is verra endearing, love.”

“What did you mean, turn me?”

“You’ll recollect I love you, no matter what I tell you? Fair?”

It was difficult to concentrate with what had to be a tongue fixated on her wrist, lapping at the tissue there.

“Black . . . Death, Iain.”

“ ’Twas the start of the talk. Tales of death dealers started up, creatures that walked the night, taking a man’s lifeblood and tossing the flesh. You ever told these?”

“Everyone hears stories like that. To frighten . . . and entertain. I think plays are written about them. They’re not called death dealers. They’re called—I can’t remember the term . . .”

Her voice lowered, losing the words, but that was his fault as he moved his ministration up her arm toward an elbow, wrapping it about him as he went.

“We’re called vampires, leannan.”

“Vampires.”

The word was softly whispered, engendering illicit sensual overtones onto the term. She couldn’t keep her mind functioning and that wasn’t normal. Or sane. Or anything other than complete madness. His touch was at the core of her trouble, too. Just like before.

“Aye, love. Vampires. Purveyors of death. Proprietors of the night. Seeking only to satisfy their lusts while taking their pleasure. Is this the tales you’ve heard?”

She nodded. His voice created shivers that went over her entire frame before centering somewhere deep within her. Calling to something primitive and earthy that stirred and came to life in her very core. Something she’d never felt before. One thing she believed about this story was his prowess with women. The man’s voice created pleasure, his touch generated energy, and his frame and size guaranteed sexual satisfaction. She could well believe centuries of women swooned over him if the sensation matched what he did to her. She only wished she had the fortitude to deny it.

“We doona’ just take our pleasures, love. We give them. You ken?”

“I . . . don’t believe in . . . vampires, Iain.”

“I dinna’, either.”

“You’re crazed, Iain. Mad. Someone should’ve warned me. The family curse is insanity, isn’t it? This is why you chose an impoverished English girl to betroth.”

“Leannan . . . look to me.”

Look? Without light?

The glow was back, diffusing gold-washed light onto the walls. Tira rolled her head along one of his chest mounds, reached a shoulder, and tilted her head back before doing as he asked. Her eyes went huge and her breath caught at the opened lips, sharp teeth, and the absolute power seeming to hum from him, filling the enclosure with energy.

“These are fangs, love. For drawing lifeblood. Go ahead. Touch. Feel.”

“Iain . . . I—”

Do it!

The command went right through her consciousness without his voicing it. Tira trembled as she reached to run a finger along one long spiked tooth. She felt the oddest prick in her own bottom lip at the same time.

“Iain . . .”

“Now, touch your own.”

Her heart was blocking her throat. That had to be the obstruction lodged there, impeding her breathing and her swallowing as she did what he ordered. Tira found two like spikes protruding from her upper teeth. They were sharp enough to cut her index finger, and she pulled it away to stare at the pin drop of dark blood.

“This . . . can’t be.” Her voice shuddered, matching the tremor overtaking her entire body.

“Tira, I—”

“This is . . . a nightmare. It is. It has to be! Please? No! This isn’t real! It isn’t! How could you do this to me? Oh, Iain . . . no!”

There was more, sobbed with a voice that broke along with her words. She lifted from him or got lifted. The space was black again, everything was. But Tira didn’t see it. She clamped both hands over the horror that was her face . . . the horror he’d made her visualize and then feel. He didn’t stop her. He didn’t even touch her. But she knew he left. She didn’t see it. She knew only one moment he was there, and the next, he’d vanished.

Chapter Twelve

Iain looked down at the moon-tipped waves with unseeing eyes and waited. He’d sated to such an overfull state his ears rang with the infusion of blood into his veins. He couldn’t remember when he’d last taken so much, perhaps back when he’d first turned and found the taste ambrosia to the senses. He’d been insatiable then, too, but with a different result. Back then, he’d leave animals near death and shepherds begging for assist with their flock. Not now. Gluttony of this magnitude required precision and skill. All of which he’d practiced to such a fine art not one animal noted the pricks, nor would any consequence be visible in the morning.

And so he waited out here in the dark for his body to absorb the feeding. He’d done it for a reason. His bride was going to need sustenance, and she wasn’t going to take it easily.

Iain pondered his situation in the soulless waves, growing high enough to wash the deck occasionally, wetting his boots and the bottom of his feile-breacan. He’d waited the last few years to go to her because he feared the demon within him. He lacked control of it—and the last thing he’d wanted was an eternity with a fledgling girl at his side. He’d wanted her full-grown, educated, and ready . . . and happy.

Iain sighed and reached for the railing. He was lying to himself. He wasn’t waiting for his body to absorb the volume of fluid. He was out here because he was afraid. Him: Iain Duncan Evan James Alexander MacAvee, fourth Duke of MacAvee. Earl of Glencairn and Blannock, chieftain of Clans MacAvee, MacGruder, and two other clans. He admitted it. Freely. But only to himself. Iain was out here on a wave-washed deck, watching the black of an ocean until it disappeared, because he was afraid of facing one little woman.

If he possessed a gilded tongue, he’d have used it already, begging her forgiveness with words such as the English seemed to spout—at any time and for any reason. But he didn’t have the gift. No MacAvee did. They were known for reticence. The past was filled with tales of victory and conquest and ruthlessness, all accomplished with few words and no emotion. That was another thing. A MacAvee didn’t show emotion because it was said they failed to possess them. Made it easier to attack and deal with the responsibilities and spoils of victory. Taking a man’s land and his castle and his clan required overseeing and controlling it. There wasn’t a need of regret, emotion, or words. And in those, Iain did his ancestry proud.

He’d grown up with the tales and then he’d added to them. MacAvee lairds were all large men, handsome, fearless, descended from Highlanders that defeated more than one wave of Norse marauders. A MacAvee sought ostracism before dishonor, maiming before capture, and death before defeat. They acted with courage and valor. Honor. Pride. They were revered and feared by everyone, including their Honor Guard. It was part of the legend and one Iain added to with alacrity and a great sense of accomplishment and pleasure.

And now . . . it was all as dust in his mouth, tasteless, and endless. Joyless. Because of one woman.

The waves beneath him grew large. Not enough for worry, but enough to tell of the weather ahead. The moment they’d turned north, it changed. As if every portion of the ship and everything on it knew they left civilization and the stricture of massed groups of people behind and replaced it with untrammeled beauty and freedom. All you had to do was open your senses: Hike through a forest, run across a moor, ford a glen, climb along a dale . . . do any of these things, and you’d know beauty and freedom and happiness like no other. Scotland was filled with the grandness of men and women who’d lived and died for it. All you had to do was inhale it.

Iain pulled in a large breath and forced the experience into his consciousness; the moist feel of rain-laden air just waiting to release, the slight brine smell of seawater; the perfect blend of moonlit quiet and pending wave-borne fury. It was as it always had been, and would continue to be. And he was still out here, waiting and afraid. And alone. Iain exhaled slowly and twisted his hands into claws about the iron rail.

The view blurred into a mesh of ocean and cloud-laden sky. Iain shuddered and blinked and kept at it until everything went back into focus. Distinct and lonely. He sniffed, and then he watched in disbelief as the ocean blurred again. And then he pulled every muscle in his body into a mass of coiled anger, his back aching with the effort while braided iron marks got imprinted into his palms, until the weakness faded and then passed. And then got buried . . . as he should have been nearly three hundred years ago.

Iain frowned. And then he snarled. He was the MacAvee chieftain. He couldn’t afford an exhibition of weakness. Ever. MacAvee lairds passed judgment, made war, granted favors, assumed full responsibility for their clans, and they never admitted regret. They were immune from human frailties, including something so close to weeping he’d kill the man who even hinted at it.

Iain looked to his right and left to make certain he’d had no observers. And that’s when he saw her. This time he gripped the iron so hard, the ends loosened and it rotated one-quarter turn before he stopped. She was wearing the seafoam green gown, and there wasn’t a mark on it, despite the damage he’d done. Her hair was unbound, sending a red-hued draping all about her as wind tossed the strands. She wasn’t aware of her powers, yet, or she’d not be approaching, her steps doing little to alter the drape of her gown as it skimmed her legs. . . .

“Your Grace?”

At Grant’s voice, Iain swiveled his head to the other side and glared at the man for daring to witness his Tira. Then he turned fully to face his second-in-command, blocking everything.

“You’d best have a verra good reason for being here, Grant. Damn good.”

“Her Grace is asking for you.”

Iain swung about to see nothing save open deck getting washed with wave water. He blinked twice and still found nothing. That’s when he got the first glimpse of her power.

“Iain. Oh . . . Iain. Iain?”

Tira writhed on the bare mattress, trying to get as much of her skin into contact with the ticking as possible. Her existence was becoming a nightmare. From the horror of that story he told her in that black cubicle beneath this bed to the sip of water she’d taken. All of it was horrid and getting worse. Her skin was too tight, the nightgown she’d donned impossibly restrictive and confining and creating sweat where it stifled her flesh. Tira tore at the material, hearing the rip of seams and clatter of buttons peppering the wooden floor as she worked at it.

She was thirsty, tired, hungry, with a massive appetite nothing assuaged. One sip of the water she’d ordered his men to bring her, and she’d spit it out in disgust, and then agony. Blisters erupted inside her mouth, closing off her throat and sending spikes of pain all through her until nothing assuaged the latest hurt.

“Iain . . .”

Tira yanked the shreds of fabric that had been her nightgown from her, shoving the jagged strips over the sides, seeking succor that only the bare mattress seemed to provide. Tira put her open mouth to the ticking and inhaled, sensing a cool sensation that she knew had no measure of reality to it, but she could have sworn her throat eased slightly, allowing breath. Each tormented breath seemed filled with the same name. Over and over, she’d called to him, and then finally he was there.

“I’m here, love.”

The mattress dented with his weight, rolling her into the well of space created at his knee, and then she was clasping her arms about his neck and arching up into him, willing his essence into her as the only way from this newest torture.

“Iain . . .”

“What have you eaten?”

Tira shook her head.

“What have the fools given you?”

Light from dead candles flared into being at his words or the anger behind them, paining her eyes with the brilliance before it subsided into normalcy.

“They . . .”

“I’ll have his head!”

Daylight wasn’t as vivid as the spear of light accompanying his threat, and Tira lunged up from the mattress to cling to him, holding him even as he went to his feet and breathed with huge heavy movements.

“They wouldn’t bring me anything! Oh . . . Iain . . . it pains.”

“What, leannan? What?”

“Water.”

“They gave you water? ” He strode for the door, one arm holding her to him while the other reached for his sword.

Tira shook her head and started speaking, slurring the words around the obstruction of teeth and not even noting the blend of Gaelic and English. “They wouldn’t bring me anything, Iain . . . and I begged for it. . . .”

“How did you get water, sweet?”

He’d stopped and was still glaring at the door, a pulse pounding in his neck right at her eye level, and Tira narrowed her eyes at it.

“For a bath.”

“You got water to bathe in?”

She nodded, moving her cheek along his shoulder, although her attention was caught and held by the bluish tint of fluid right beneath his skin. . . .

“And you tried to drink it?”

Tira surged upward, opened her mouth, and sank her fangs right into his throat, earning a groan of reaction from the man holding her, as well as the sweet flooding through her mouth and down her throat, cooling the blisters that had been there. And then it got better. Tira trembled with the sensation of bliss, seeming to throb everywhere at once.

“Slowly, love. You must—oh, my sweet!”

The sword dropped, gifting him with another arm to hold and support her. Tira heard the sound of metal hitting plank floor, and the next moment she got lowered onto her mattress again, where the cool feel against her back collided with the warmth everywhere else. And then she felt a prick on her neck and slight suction before he lapped at the skin with a tongue motion that twined her innards into knots. Tira couldn’t contain the sensation. She pulled her teeth free of his flesh, threw her head back onto mattress, and keened a cry into the air about them. And then she latched on to a shoulder, sinking her teeth deep and sucking pure rapture from him. Wool scratched at her skin and she pushed at it, shoving and pushing at his kilt thing until Iain shimmied it out of her way.

That was the catalyst. Tira moved and he let her, rolling so she was astride him, gripping one of his thighs between her knees as she ran her hands all over revealed skin. Her palms and fingers came alive with thousands of sparks of sensation. And then she used her lips. The man beneath her groaned and trembled as she slid her canines along his chest, slicing a thin cut the entire way. She reached his upper belly and teased the ropes of muscles with her tongue, toying and enjoying every movement they made before she shoved her spikes into him to take from there as well.

Iain lurched upward, lifting them completely from the mattress for a moment before falling back, sending flecks of down fill into the air from the landing. Crimson color added to the glow imbuing the chamber. Tira pulled free of his belly flesh and lapped at the holes, watching with narrowed eyes as the puncture wounds sealed slightly with every tongue swipe. The reddish haze he’d put into play gave her full view of hard male, readied and prepared, and aching for what she could give him. If she so deigned.

“ Ah . . . Tira . . . love.”

Iain ran his hands along her spine, his fingers losing contact with every bump, and she felt every one of them as vividly as if it were her fingers. It was another odd sensation and another new experience. And it was getting hotter and wilder and more erotic with every moment that passed. Never had she felt so alive, so urgent, and so violent.

“Don’t you dare stop me, Iain.”

“Stop you? Are you crazed?”

“Then lift your hands from me.”

“Lass . . . please!”

“Now, Iain. Now!”

He answered her command with an indistinct curse, garbled from somewhere deep in his throat, but he did as she ordered and released her. Tira moved lower, suctioning her mouth to his side and tightening her knees about his leg, holding as he turned into a churning creature whose every thrash threatened to toss her. Tira breathed onto flesh slickened with moisture as she moved lower, her tongue grazing goose-bump covered skin. She pushed his rod out of her way, holding from it as if it had little value, and laughed at his snarl.

“I hate you, Iain MacAvee. I hate this.”

“Lass . . . I—”

“I hate what you do. And I hate what you make me do.”

“Then . . . why—”

“Shut up.”

Tira opened her mouth to its fullest, felt her teeth elongating with the strangest feeling, and that gave her weapons to spear him in one side of his buttock. Deep. Intently. Fully. Iain’s resultant yell filled the chamber, followed by the thunder of his heartbeat, and then the pounding of his hands at the edges of the mattress as he hammered full handfuls of it into the bed frame. Tira laughed at his antics, unlatching her teeth. That was just stupid, making it easy for him to move his grip from the mattress to her arms, biting into the flesh as he hauled her up into position, and then lowered her onto a shaft that was thick with need and want. And this time his bellow matched her moan.

“That’s it, leannan. Right—”

“I hate you, Iain MacAvee. I hate you.” Tira crooned the words with each move, matching her rocking motion with the cadence, making a chant of sorts.

“Fair enough.”

“You . . . saying I . . . lie?”

Tira’s voice caught with the beginnings of ecstasy and he knew it, for the next moment, he had her in a full kiss, catching the cry with lips that thrilled, teeth that cut, and a tongue that licked and caressed. And the moment he released her, she was pulling away and snarling at him again.

“I . . . hate you, Iain! Fully.”

He grinned and it angered her into beating at him, but he caught her flailing blows with such swift hands she didn’t see the move. And then he slapped them together in order to bring them to his mouth, slitting cuts open on her knuckles in order to lap at them.

“I hate you,” she repeated when he moved his gaze from her conjoined hands and started her heart into such a painful beat he had to feel it.

“So?” The word was ragged and growled.

“Don’t you ken, Iain? I hate you!”

“Prove it. You say you hate me?”

Tira narrowed her eyes and raised her upper lip, showcasing her spikes . . . nodded.

“We’ve . . . got all night. Prove it.”

With that quip, he gripped her fully against him and rolled, changing her angered outburst to sounds of pure pleasure with a torrent of thrusts that melded them. Time and again he slammed into her, warping her into a siren of wanton desire and craving and need. Tira shoved her jaw along his, tangling for position, but the moment she reached a perfect spot on his throat, he did the same. His fangs sank deep into her throat first, changing the scream of anger into mews of delight that built and hovered and surrounded . . . and then received.

Chapter Thirteen

“Iain?”

Tira’s whisper seemed loud. It might be due to the low gut of the candles, the minutes that ticked by without anything to measure them, or the long length of man reclining right beside her, contemplating something on the ceiling. It was probably the latter. She had it decided before he rolled to face her, putting masculine splendor on display with the move. Tira swallowed and waited for him to meet her gaze. But he didn’t. He seemed fixated on an exposed bit of thread from the seaming of the mattress between them.

“Aye?” he finally prompted.

“I don’t understand what’s happening . . . a-a-and I need answers.”

She watched him move his arm to trace circles about the thread that looked to have failed its sole purpose of holding top cover to bottom.

“Are you going to give them to me?”

“Do you still hate me?” He flicked a glance to her, imprinting a flurry of shiver with it, and then returned to his fixation on the thread.

“I . . . should.”

Tira moved into a sit, pushing until she reached the headboard. It gave her stability in a world of cloudlike surface and defense in a realm of fantasy. The mattress shifted with her move, but Iain didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he covered it over with his continual attention to the loose thread now near her toes.

“Aye, leannan . . . you should. So begin. Ask your questions and I’ll try and answer.”

“Do your . . . men know?”

“The Honor Guard is specially chosen. From all comers. They compete to keep the position when I allow it.”

“Allow it?”

“Brawn is na’ the only mark of an Honor Guard. They must have courage, great fighting skills, and loyalty to their chieftain.”

“So . . . is that a ‘yes, they know’?”

A smile might have touched his lip, lifting it slightly. It was hard to tell since he wasn’t looking toward her and the light had dimmed.

“Grant kens all of it. The rest? Enough.”

“Why Grant?”

“ ’Twas his decision. Grant has nae wife and nae family. He gave up all to become my second-in-command.”

“That’s . . . rather harsh.”

“ ’Tis a position of great honor. Granted ’til death. His great-uncle had it afore him. Grant is emissary for the MacAvee laird, taking my place and issuing my edicts at all functions of the Crown and the land. Especially those held in daylight hours.”

“He’s not a vampire?”

Iain shook his head. Lanky strands of dark hair accompanied the motion.

“None of them?”

“I’ve na’ turned any . . . afore you.” He tipped his head toward her, creating two lines in his forehead with the heart-stopping gaze. “And I fully wish I had na’ done so.”

“Why did you, then?”

Lashes shadowed his eyes before he returned his regard to the stupid thread. She had to wait four heartbeats before he answered. She heard and counted each one.

“I knew the moment you came into being, leannan. The exact moment. The entire earth seemed to tell me of it. My sentence of loneliness had an end. I’d have the mate I’d been promised. All I had to do was find you. ’Twas na’ hard. You have an attraction that pulled at me. Even as a bairn.”

“That’s . . . not possible.”

“Possibility does na’ change this. Naught does. But I swear the truth. I’d been promised by every generation of Clan Fey that I’d be granted my soul mate. It was fated.”

“There’s no such thing as fate, Iain.”

“Just as there’s nae such thing as vampires?”

Tira didn’t have an answer. There wasn’t one. “It was you forcing the betrothal bargain. Wasn’t it?”

“Force is wrongly inferred. My sword never left the scabbard. Na’ once.”

“There are other means of force.”

He shrugged. “They had what I wanted. I had gold. Nae forcing was needed.”

“Then . . . it was you.”

“Of course. I’ve been the second and first dukes, and the earls of Glencairn and Blannock, as well. ’Tis nae hard thing to receive lands, titles, and castles when you’re of use to kings. And I was of powerful use.”

“Powerful?”

“I canna’ be killed and I doona’ lose. If the battle is enjoined on a dark, rain-filled day, I’m invincible. When MacAvee Clan attends a battle, that side wins.”

He shrugged, rippling muscle beneath the skin and drawing a hand she couldn’t stay. The moment she touched him, he went taut, stiff, unmoving.

“You should na’ touch me.”

“Why?”

“Your nearness makes me craven and lustful and filled with need . . . to an impossible degree. I canna’ fight it. I tried. And you already ken how that turned out.”

“I wasn’t going to ask about that.” She lifted her hand.

“I was na’ going to speak of it, either. But there it is. Everything about you is designed for pleasure. To a vast degree.. . . Beyond any other woman.”

“Any other?”

He cleared his throat.

“How many others?”

“That is a dangerous sort of question, leannan.”

“Dangerous?”

“Nae matter the answer, you might make good on your threat to lock me from your chamber.”

“That’s worse than hating you?”

“I could get fully fond of your brand of hatred, love. Fully.”

It was softly said but carried weight like a boulder atop her belly. Tira went concave with it until the heaviness eased. He was right, and no amount of prevaricating changed it. She’d been the one seducing and attacking him . . . despite her hate. He’d called it craven lust to an impossible degree, and that was it exactly. That’s when Tira narrowed her eyes as she realized he was using it to avoid answering.

“How many, Iain?”

He moved his hand from the mattress to hold it out as if studying his fingers held answers. And he’d better not be counting!

“I’ve had three hundred years, leannan. There were always lasses about. I was ever pursued by them. You’ve seen it. Women made certain sure I knew of their . . . interest.”

“How many, Iain?” she repeated.

He blew a sigh that was very visual as it moved most of the muscle beneath all that naked skin. “I have na’ lived this many years and learned naught. There is nae number to satisfy you. It would be best if you just simply continue hating me.”

“That many, huh?”

It wasn’t a question. She meant it that way. And then she got treated to the sight of him going to his haunches and lifting a leg, creating a rest position for his arms and then his chin. The way he’d done it put him in shadow, so the golden wash of candlelight lit her.

“That is na’ what you want answers to, Tira. Be truthful.”

“Change the lighting, Iain.”

He smiled, revealing gleaming, pointed canines. “Why?”

“This isn’t fair.”

“Who says life is fair? Or death, for that matter?”

“I asked for answers and you avoid giving them. Now, change the light.”

The candles immediately dimmed as if half of them had been snuffed.

“Now answer the question.”

“You doona’ want a number put to my prowess, lass. What you want is the why of it. The strength of it. And mayhap the reason ’tis so overpowering, you forget things as vast as hatred. This is what you wish to hear.”

He lowered his voice and slanted toward her, cursing her with an absolute blizzard of shiver.

“Give me . . . a better answer, Iain . . . MacAvee.”

His name dribbled into whiffs of sound, driven by goose-bump lifted skin from just the chance of his touch.

“ ’Tis the same with me, Tira love. The exact same. I dinna’ ask for it. I canna’ control it. You ask of women? I canna’ answer. I doona’ note other women. I nae longer even see them. All I see and feel and yearn for is you. Trust me.”

He moved again, scrambling her wits and tying her tongue and starting wetness and craving and sensual longing. She licked her upper lip, caught her tongue on a tooth, and narrowed her eyes at him, trying to mute the view of naked male on the bare mattress.

“Iain . . . this is cheating.”

“I canna’ help it, love. I’ve already spoken of it.”

His shadow touched her, created by a stir of motion. Tira opened her mouth and said something so contradictory to everything he was creating, she was startled to hear her own voice.

“You are very close . . . to getting locked . . . out of my chambers.”

Light burst, delineating her slide along the headboard until her elbow connected and stopped the fall. Each heavy breath he took punctuated a reaction to every hair and every pore on her body. And then he growled, deep and low, and menacing. All of him looked taut and angered, creating lines of striation about his chest and arms as he resumed his seat as if he’d never left it.

Tira watched as he just sat there, waiting, unmoving and statue-still, although the bumps and bunches of muscle defined beneath the skin displayed how much rein he employed to portray disinterest and nonchalance.

“Iain?”

“Ask your question.” The answer came through clenched teeth. She didn’t have to ask.

“This mattress—”

A snarled curse ruptured the air between them, accompanied by complete blackness. Tira’s heart lurched into her throat, closing it off to a frightening degree. She had to swallow around it in order to speak.

“All I want to know is why.”

“Why . . . what?”

She’d rather have every candle lit then have to squint in the dark and wonder if his anger matched the sound of it.

“Why is this mattress so important?”

“’Tis your security. Granted from your first rest place after turning.”

“Do I need it for survival?”

“I’m na’ certain.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair.”

“What?”

“I mean, in comparison to yours.”

“Mine?”

“That piece of moth-ridden hemp I woke from. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“That’s my pallet . . . but far from moth eaten. I’ve taken great care with it.”

“Well, I think it needs to be washed. Badly.”

He was moving away. The barest shift in the bed was verification.

“I’m na’ good with words.”

Tira raised her brows. She barely kept the burst of laughter from erupting. “Now that’s a surprise,” she finally answered.

“I canna’ sit here and attempt it.”

“But I need to know certain things.”

“If you’ve need of me, call.”

His voice sounded choked. Flat. Tira concentrated on the dark and was rewarded with the smallest amount of glow before it dissipated.

“Are you running from me again? Iain!”

The words echoed back at her from the blackness. The cabin felt empty. Bereft. Lonely. He’d left. She didn’t have to see it.

Was he running from her? What man wouldn’t? It was impossible to stay near without taking every bit of rapture she gave him. It was equally impossible to act as if her proximity did nothing. Her nearness intoxicated him even as her words spoke on his guilt and treachery.

The drop was endless this time. Or he was ill. Or weak. Or something worse.

Iain landed on his side with a thud that pained, making more oddity in a world filling with it. This couldn’t be happening. Trembling was overtaking him, giving him a new curse with worse ramifications. He was a Highland laird. Strong. Stout. Stoic. Masculine.

He pulled handfuls of pallet weave to his face and somehow kept the emotion where it belonged: hidden.

Chapter Fourteen

MacAvee Hall looked to be a massive structure, constructed of black-on-black stone atop more of the same. It straddled a cliff, looking over the village of Avee on the shore below it. Tira had observed it since the rain-filled evening turned to rain-filled night. It didn’t require effort. All she had to do was focus. She’d watched as light after light speckled the castle, coming from so many windows the structure looked to encompass the entire rock face.

Grant came to her door to fetch her now-empty goblet. He didn’t speak of it. She didn’t, either. They knew what it had contained: the same liquid as the night before, and the one before that.

“His Grace’s carriage has arrived from the hall.”

Tira nodded.

“I’ll be back to escort you.”

The door shut and a key turned. Tira walked across to the armoire and pulled out a cloak to go over the skirt and blouse she’d donned without one bit of an assist. Iain was avoiding her. She never saw him. He might as well be invisible with his comings and goings. She knew the reason for that, too: his power. He was well versed in avoiding detection with the way he froze and stalled time. She’d witnessed it and been a part of it, which made it painfully obvious he’d shut her out of it now.

It appeared her sentence for questioning him involved solitude and reflection time—two full nights of it. And he’d locked her in. She didn’t believe Grant’s word it was for her safety. No, it wasn’t. It was for Iain’s. She hadn’t labeled him a coward yet, but it was on the tip of her tongue more than once. Good thing she loved reading and he had a large store of books. And when that bored, she’d played with her enhanced senses, bringing the decks outside into focus. Almost like she was out there, watching the waves and the shoreline they followed. And sometimes she thought she was.

She was ready when the guardsman returned. The deck echoed beneath Grant’s feet. Not hers. As if she’d suddenly become weightless. Tira didn’t find it odd. She simply pulled the hood farther over her head and followed.

The ducal carriage was large, with no identifying marks. It stood out in its anonymity like a black ink splotch on a painting, until she factored in the four black stallions between the posts. A penetrating look showed Rory and Sean mounted on two more black stallions. They nodded and Tira returned the salutation from the top step. That’s when she looked about and realized not only could she witness all sorts of behavior, but she could hear conversations and sounds in whichever direction she chose . . . to a near-cacophonic level.

If any noted her cry and the swift way she entered the carriage, they didn’t say. Tira crawled along a bench to a far corner, shoved both hands to her ears, held her breath, and the next moment it all ceased.

Just like that.

Tira’s heart pounded, her whole body trembled, and there wasn’t anyone to even ask. Damn Iain. The least he could do was help her with this thing he’d done to her! When she saw him again, she was going to make certain he knew of it.

She could sense the dock outside but didn’t dare put her attention to it again. She settled with observing it through the large window at her elbow, watching the ground mist wrap about every light post. A flick of motion caught her attention, and Tira moved her head in time to observe Iain at the gangway, the quay, and the carriage, rocking it with his entrance, all of it within a blink of time.

Tira opened her mouth to speak, but something about the droop of his lip and general melancholy of his frame stopped her. He seemed to be intent on the view outside as they left the houses behind and entered a well-groomed roadway lined with the black silhouette of trees. And then they started climbing.

She was tired of his avoidance, fretful over the continual silence, and anxious over her new home. She guessed that once they reached his hall, it might be next to impossible to find him. Not unless she wanted to spend the rest of this eternity searching that monstrosity of a castle.

“Iain?”

He flicked a glance to the vicinity of her nose before returning to the view. The oddest impression of panic filtered from him before it faded.

“You can look at me. I won’t bite. At least . . . not yet.”

Her voice was breathless, and at the end it dropped an octave, sending sexual-tipped meaning. She knew he flinched. She heard the rustle of his muslin shirt against his skin. Upon licking her bottom lip, she could swear she tasted that same skin . . . and the faintest hint of whiskey.

“Have you been drinking spirits?”

“I fed,” he replied finally.

“They’d been drinking spirits?”

“Aye.”

“Does . . . that intoxicate?”

“You should na’ speak with me. Not . . . yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m . . . na’ certain I’ve the strength for it.”

“But you just said you fed.”

“That is na’ what I mean.”

Tira sighed. “You avoid me for days and then you speak riddles. You’re the image of strength, Iain. And absolute male perfection. You probably always were.”

He squelched a groan and shuddered with it, making more erotic sounds of shirt fabric grazing brawn. Perhaps it was better in the dark. That way there wasn’t much interfering with the expansion of her new powers. Tira narrowed her eyes and focused and brought him into view, his head lowered, lips open to allow each pant of breath while his shoulders were so taut it pulled at the shoulder seams. He should’ve worn a sleeveless shirt. It would save on tailoring. He had his hands clenched about his knees, looking to break bone, and that put every bit of strength he’d just disclaimed on vivid display.

Tira tucked her bottom lip into her mouth and felt the prick as her canines lengthened.

“You need to . . . cease this.”

“Why?”

She rifled the reply with alacrity and power. That way she didn’t miss a bit of how he pulled in a huge breath that expanded the muslin to ripping point. She didn’t need her enhanced hearing as his shoulder seam separated. And then he let the air out, sending words with it that tripped atop each other.

“Because I’m a man of action, na’ words . . . and I’m full cursed, and I should’ve known better than to get into a carriage with you! There’s little defense!”

“Defense?”

“Aye! Defense!”

“Against what?”

She released her lip and eased her feet free of the slippers. He sent a sidelong glance as if he heard it. It came with a flare of light spearing the interior, before it disappeared. And then she had to use her enhanced sight to see him again.

“You’re not going to answer, are you?”

There was a shine atop the obsidian of his eyes before he looked away, blinking rapidly as he did so. The whoosh of volume through her chest startled her to a painful degree.

“You want an answer, leannan, I’ll give you one.”

“I’m listening.”

“You hate me.”

“Do I?”

“You’ve every right. I’ve shown little in honor and naught in self-control, and I—What did you just say?”

He’d poised in midmove, half turned toward her, with his head lowered and those two creases splicing his brow. Tira’s heart stalled at the picture he presented. Stunning. Perfect. Manly. Tira ran her tongue over her teeth, manipulating around the two spikes as she reached them. He reacted, seeming to fill his side of the carriage with blackness as if he somehow grew in stature. And then he went back to his usual size, the fading brightness behind showing how he’d done it.

“Your road . . . is very well groomed,” she told him.

“Wh—at?”

He split the word in two and that was just endearing and sweet and creating tension and longing atop more of the same.

“I suppose everything you own is well groomed. You’ve had years to see to it.”

“Tira—”

The low groan attached to her name sent a vibration of sound with it. Tira pulled pins from her hair, releasing it into a mass she finger-combed into a veil. She could see his response as both hands grabbed wads of plaid material from his kilt hem and tore.

“Most coaches have a sway to them as they travel uneven cobblestone or mud-pitted road. But not yours. Oh no. Your drive is perfectly groomed. Smooth. Even when traveling in the rain at night. There’s not a hint of the smallest rut.”

“You want a rough ride?”

“I want an excuse, Iain! That’s what I want!”

“An . . . excuse?”

“An excuse for falling against you! Something to blame when I soothe this ache within me. Something I can curse for longing to match my skin to yours! I want to run my hands all over you, and sink these fangs into you. I need it so badly!”

The blouse had too many buttons. She was reduced to yanking at the placket, separating it as buttons got plucked and dropped, making little spattering noises on the carriage floor.

“ ’Tis the vampire speaking.”

“So?”

“I have vowed I will na’ use it—”

“Shut up and help me!”

She had the blouse opened, ignoring how the satin chemise stuck to her skin, displaying and lifting her breasts. She tried to shed the skirt, but the waistband was an issue. Tira circled it twice, her fingers shaking as she looked for the fastening, before gripping the fabric and tugging and gaining absolutely nothing. Damn dependable serviceable tweed!

“I will na’ . . . take you this way! I will na’!”

“Who said anything about you?”

She leaned into the gap between them with a snarl, making certain he saw the length of her teeth.

“Tira . . . please!”

She didn’t feel the leap, and yet it was her body atop him, slamming his back into the carriage with the same move that sank her teeth into him. And then she was erupting with bliss so large no black carriage on a black night could contain it. His fangs slid along her neck, and she ignored them, sucking and absorbing life fluid while yanking and pulling material apart in order to match breast to chest and belly to belly.

“Tira . . . please! Na’ like this. Please? Oh . . . sweet! ”

Tira had him in her hands, stiff and readied, while the skirt hid her motion to latch on to him, sheathing him at the exact moment he punctured her neck, and then she was flying. Soaring. The entire experience blended into an ecstasy of full-out paradise with Iain at the center. Tira shoved her body at him, over and over, rocking with a discord of rhythm, and that got his hands gripping her buttocks in order to hold her in place for a roll beneath him. The move unlatched his fangs and gave him freedom to slide them along her skin, searching for and finding a breast tip. Tira went wild at the first hint of suckling attention. She couldn’t stand it! She swung at him and connected with solid-muscled back flesh, turning her blows into caresses.

There wasn’t space to contain such rapture! Tira arched up and into his mouth, glorying in the sensation, hauling in a deep breath while another full-fledged bloom of ecstasy overtook and consumed her. And then she was falling, exhaling with the drop, and hearing the words he was whispering.

“Ah, lass. Forgive me.”

“Don’t stop, Iain. Please. Don’t you dare stop.”

“Stop?”

The word was grunted, intensifying the pummeling he was doing, taking her into realms of existence she’d never before imagined. And then he did stop, poised in place by the weave of his body in flexed perpetuity of motion, shuddering and pulsing deep within while she held on and reveled in it. This time she was determined he wouldn’t leave her, or escape, or do anything other than hold her.

She clung to Iain but he moved anyway, placing her with great care on her own bench, going to his knees in the carriage well to do so. And then, before Tira’s surprised eyes, he lowered his face into the bench and shook.

Chapter Fifteen

Tira had her hand hovering over Iain’s shoulder when the clatter of horse hooves on wood stopped her. The coach rolled beneath a gateway, darkening the interior—not enough she couldn’t penetrate it, but enough to show arrival. The sound of a portcullis rising came next, and within a blink they drew to a stop. Iain regarded her from his seat, fully attired and immaculately groomed, proving he’d stalled time again.

“I wish you’d cease that.” Tira dropped her hand. It should be chilled in the carriage with just a skirt for modesty. Tira flicked a glance down at herself. She had the shredded remains of her chemise and blouse still dangling off her shoulders. But it wasn’t chilled. And it wasn’t warm. It felt vacant.

“What?”

“You . . . alter time. Change . . . perception.”

“So?” It was soft-spoken.

“I thought it magical until you shut me out.”

He sighed heavily but didn’t answer.

“I mean . . . I want to be with you when you do it. I want to be part of it again. To share in it.”

“Cover yourself.”

She pulled the cloak from where it was crumpled beneath her, wrapped it about her, put the hood over her head, and held both ends together at her chin for good measure. “Is that better?”

“You canna’ have it both ways, leannan. I thought it possible, but I was wrong.”

“Both ways?”

“You want me because of the vampirism. It stirs the blood, mixes up the senses, overrides objections. There’s nae stopping it. We just proved it.”

Her skin tingled as he listed exactly what happened and what was starting up again. It was easy to hear the effect in her reply. “Does it matter why?”

“Aye. And to a degree I’d na’ thought possible.”

“I . . . want you, Iain.” Her heart rate had elevated, her nerve endings started twitching, and her canines lengthened.

His face went grim. Dark. Then Grant opened the door to receive a hissed snarl from her, showing full teeth. Fear touched his face for the barest moment before it was gone. He nodded at Iain and got a nod in reply.

“Everything is prepared, Your Grace.”

“What’s been prepared, Iain?” She hadn’t much control over her voice or it wouldn’t rise with what sounded like worry. Then she admitted it. She was worried. Where was he taking her? Would he be with her? Would he lock her in again? And for how long?

“Come, Tira.” Iain stood outside the carriage, the sway of the coach the only indicator he’d moved. “My household is up and dressed to welcome us.”

“All of them?”

He nodded.

“At this hour?”

“MacAvee lairds keep odd hours. The households adapt.”

And here she was still suffering waves of illicit yearning and desire, her hair unbound, clothing in disarray, and covered over with a wrinkled cloak. Tira concentrated and felt her teeth retracting. “You could’ve warned me,” she whispered.

“Would it have mattered?”

No. The need and desire were too strong. Too vivid. Too massive. And she’d been the instigator. Again.

“Come. They’ve been told of your illness.”

Tira stopped at the door in a stoop, one hand on the railing while the other held her cloak together. “My . . . illness ?”

“You suffered massively from seasickness. The entire voyage. You were too ill to venture from your cabin.”

“I was locked in, Iain. I couldn’t leave it.”

“Semantics.”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Cold. Distant.”

“Because anything else is beyond me! Can you na’ just come down? Please?”

The hand held toward her trembled, warming her heart, strengthening her legs, and making it feel like she flew to his side. Tira lifted her chin and turned to face a virtual sea of faces and welcoming smiles. An elderly man stepped forward, clad in a MacAvee plaid kilt, black jacket, frothy white lace-fronted shirt, while he held a large feather-topped tam in one hand.

“Greetings, Your Grace! Even without introduction, I ken you as MacAvee laird. At first glance! You’re the image of your grandsire. I was but a wee lad, but I swear . . . the verra image. Welcome to the Hall. We’ve kept it readied and prepared for your arrival at any time, to orders.”

“Thornton . . . is na’ it?”

The man bowed, displaying a bald spot ringed with silver hair. “Aye. Gerard Thornton. Steward and comptroller of MacAvee Hall. This is your new wife?”

“Her Grace, the Duchess of MacAvee.”

Sean announced it with a voice that seemed incongruous on such a thin frame. Tira curtsied, holding the cloak like the most perfect ball gown.

“Come in. Please. Follow me. We’ve prepared . . .”

There was more. Tira heard a portion as the man led them, speaking his words to the air in front of him. But then it didn’t matter as her eyes widened on the breath-taking sight of MacAvee’s great hall. The two-story carved entrance doors opened to a raised entry that dropped down into such an enormous chamber; the size was impossible to gauge, despite the volume of torches they’d lit. Tira had to use her new power, enhancing her eyesight to bring everything into perfect focus.

A hammer-beam ceiling spanned the entire chamber, its surface covered with colorful paintings in the Jacobite style. There were no less than four fireplaces carved into both walls, with stone sides and thick wooden mantels. Black rock walls peeked from between tapestries and banners, framing sizable paintings that could only have come from the paintbrushes of Renaissance masters.

Each step echoed through the chamber, blending into a beat of thumping noise, dragging her pulse into it. They passed through an archway at the far end into what might be a hall, although the width couldn’t be easily spanned with a glance. This space had dark wooden walls rising only two stories, framed wherever she looked with more tapestries, more torches in sconces, and more paintings, although these mainly featured Iain in several different poses and costumes. Tira noted more than one portrait of a woman as well. And everywhere was the glint of silver, gold, or crystal. It appeared the castle hadn’t been changed or modified in the years Iain refrained from visiting it. Or perhaps Iain liked the medieval period. He didn’t offer and she didn’t ask. It felt nearly too sacrosanct even to whisper in such magnificence.

Thornton hadn’t the same issue. He turned and addressed Iain and then her. “I’ll show you the chieftain chamber now. If you’ll follow me?”

Another set of doors was opened at the end of the hall, leading to a four-man-wide spiral stair, or maybe it was wide enough to accommodate three men on horseback, such as a Seton chieftain had built at Fyvie Castle. She’d heard of it but never seen such a thing and wondered why such trivial things occurred to her now.

The landing at the top was another rock-walled edifice, with but one ending. There was a smaller set of doors, surmising a small room. That was proven a misnomer upon opening them. Tira felt the same slack-jawed response to even more spacious, torchlit luxury. MacAvee’s chamber had one wall devoted entirely to a window. If it wasn’t a rain-filled night, the view would be extraordinary: ocean as far as the eye could see, topped by sky just as broad and all-encompassing. Tira followed the steward and Iain into the center of the room and then pirouetted in a slow circle.

It already felt big and incredibly desolate. Tira tightened her hands on the cloak’s opening. Large and lonely . . . and that window couldn’t be safe. There wasn’t a drape attached to either side of it that she could see. There were various shapes of furniture along the other walls, two fireplaces, as many groupings of chairs, as if conversations took place in the chieftain’s chambers, and on a raised platform to one side was a structure she immediately knew was a bed, with three wooden sides enclosing it.

“Thornton? Her Grace and I thank you. Grant? See to things.”

Iain spoke for her. Tira didn’t move. She kept her eyes on the raised bed while projecting with every fiber of her new powers. Don’t leave me! Iain . . . please! She heard the doors thumping together before they thudded into place. Then she heard the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock.

He’d locked her in. Emptiness settled around her, making everything even more chilled and vacant and lonely. Tira moved slowly toward the window, her hands out like a sightless person. If this was her future, she’d rather face pure sunlight and have it ended and done with. But then her fingers touched cold black stone. She splayed her hand open and found nothing but solid rock.

“I had it walled in over a century ago.”

Tira whirled to see Iain standing near the door, directly beneath a candlelit chandelier, highlighting his beauty, arms folded, showing their size, legs apart, showing his readiness for confrontation. He’d untied his hair, as well.

“You didn’t leave?”

“I doona’ concede defeat that easily.”

Black eyes locked with hers as he just stood there, unmoving.

“We . . . have to talk, Iain.”

He stopped breathing for a moment, looked over her head and way up the wall before returning to her gaze. “Can we na’ do something I have a fair chance of success at?”

“I can’t even heft a sword.”

One side of his lip lifted. “I have other skills.”

“As I’m very much aware.”

This time he grinned. Then he sobered. “You wish to talk?”

She nodded.

He gestured her to one of the groupings of furniture about a fireplace. A fire sparked to life in the grate before she settled into an overly large, stuffed wing chair. Tira studied the beginning flames for a bit before looking up at where he stood, an arm reclining on the mantel.

“How do you do that?” she asked.

“ ’Tis part my power. Yours appears to be an ability to see through solid rock walls.”

“It’s an incredible view,” she replied.

“Still is. If you wish, I’ll take you there.”

“Where?”

“Either tower. Or along the battlements. The view does na’ discriminate. Every guardsman has noted it as well as every guest.”

“You take in guests?”

“MacAvee does na’ turn down wayward travelers.”

“What of the women?”

She could tell he stiffened. “What women?”

“You can start with the ones in the paintings.”

“Oh. Paid ones. Mostly.”

“Not wives?”

“The first duke took a wife.”

“You mean you took a wife when pretending to be the first duke.”

“There’s nae pretence, love. I was the first duke. As such, a union was forced. I dinna’ marry of my own free will. Na’ until you.”

His voice cracked slightly. Tira narrowed her eyes. “Forced? You?”

“ ’Twas the best way to end the MacGruder Clan feud and gain Castle Blannock.”

“You’re married?”

“You see? The more I speak the angrier you become.”

“Iain—”

“I’m widowed. She passed on. A decade ago. An auld woman of ninety-two.”

“No children?”

“She locked me from her chamber. I dinna’ fight it. We had little in common. She golfed. Rode to hounds. Hunted. Fished. She excelled at every Scot pursuit.”

“Sounds divine.”

“Did I fail to mention a face like a horse and frame to match? There was nae way to get drunk enough to tup her.”

“Why don’t you move closer?”

He straightened. She could hear the rustle of his clothing. “That would be unwise.”

“Why?”

“I canna’ keep a strict enough leash on it . . . and I am still a gentleman born.”

“It?”

“I need you, Tira. Vastly. To a consuming level. ’Tis ever-increasing and ever-present. If I’m near you, I lose control. . . and do things that make you hate me.”

His voice dropped as did his gaze. The man was mistaken. She didn’t hate him at all. What she felt startled and shocked her, sending a surge of emotion with each beat of her heart that blended with the rivulet of shivers coursing through her skin. And he had a great gift with words, especially when they snagged in the middle.

“You must excuse me now. I’ve . . . things to see to yet.”

“Things?”

“Grant is bringing my pallet and your mattress.”

“Oh. Good. I’d hate to think I have to tote it.”

Tira pushed the hood off her head. She probably looked a sight. It had been impossible to tell on his yacht since he didn’t keep any mirrors. She looked about as it occurred to her. There hadn’t been any in the lower rooms, either.

“Why are there no mirrors, Iain?”

“I had them destroyed.”

“Why?”

He cleared his throat. “A vampire has nae reflection. Such a thing could cause rumor and speculation.”

“You fear those?”

“There’s only one thing I fear.”

His voice was nonexistent. If she hadn’t used her enhanced hearing, she’d have missed it.

“And that is . . . ?”

He flinched. She saw it and heard it. As well as the rapid beat of his heart. And the next moment he was at the chamber door, twisting the key and showing he’d used his power again.

“Iain! Don’t you dare leave! You hear?”

Chapter Sixteen

Could he hear?

His body was thrumming with the sound of her voice, the feel of her presence, and the view of her perfection. She didn’t need a mirror. There wasn’t a woman to match her. And the damn key wasn’t turning. He couldn’t see clearly enough. His hands weren’t working properly, either. Then she added to his torment with the feel of her body pressed against his back, her arms looped about his belly, holding him.

He’d been wrong on all fronts. This was hell.

“Iain?”

“Let go, Tira.”

“Why?”

“I need . . . a bit of time.”

She giggled. “You need time? You?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

To get these accursed womanly tears banished back where they come from! He shook his head and concentrated on the chieftain chamber door, looking over the entwined vines, thistles, and thornbushes they’d carved into it. Yet, the more he worked at staunching the emotion, the worse it all got.

“Lass . . . you need to . . . let me go.”

“What if I say no?”

Iain pulled in a shuddering breath. “You ken I canna’ control it and what happens . . . and yet you torment me apurpose? To what end, lass? Well? You wish me begging?”

“Would you?”

Iain pulled her arms apart, spun, and glared down at her before blinking a tear trail into existence. He didn’t even care. But when he moved from her, he got more anguish as the step took him to his knees.

“Iain?”

“All right, lass! All right. You win! I’m filled with fear. I fear this existence without you. I’ll say it. I’ll shout it, if you like! I love you and I fear you’ll never forgive me . . . and then I’ll be damned to a worse existence than afore. There. I’ve said it! You’ve got me on my knees begging. What more can you wish of me?”

The last was sobbed and he detested that the most. And then she was on her knees facing him. He didn’t look to verify it. He could feel and sense her, and it stirred the very beast he was straining to keep caged.

“Iain?”

He shook his head, glared at the spot of floor between them, tightened every muscle in his body. He was not giving in to the power this time. No matter what the prevarication. He wasn’t.

“I’m not a morning person, anyway.”

“What?”

He blinked. Grimaced. Watched another tear drop onto the wood. He was still looking as the wood soaked it up.

“And—and that pallet of yours could use a bit of padding. . . like a mattress.”

Puzzlement wove through the other emotion, helping to calm and pacify it. Iain dared a glance at her and then jerked away as if scorched. She was too beautiful! Too beloved! A russet cloud of hair enveloped her, lit with torchlight he’d just sent to a blinding level. Her green eyes glistened with secret messages. Her lips were open just slightly, allowing fang tips to peek out. . . . The beast flexed and he held to it, curling forward into a hunched ball for the effort.

“A-a-and . . . I have my own demons to satisfy. My own passions. Cravings. Lusts.”

The roar consumed him, ripped from his throat to encompass the entire room. Iain fought with everything at his command but felt the grip slipping as his canines lengthened and prepared.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“Lass, you have to move away from me. Now! You hear? Away!” The words came through teeth clenched so tight, his spikes jabbed his chin. The effort scorched every muscle into fire.

“Where?”

“Any . . . where!”

“What if I say no?”

Iain swore, lunged for her and had her beneath him, smashed between the unforgiving wood and his frame. Her clothes were missing as well. The knowledge barely made it through his senses since she held his face in her hands and was covering him with kisses and saying the sweetest words. Iain used the entire scope of his power to stall time, encasing them in a bubble of it so he could experience and store every bit of it. Forever.

“I love you, Iain MacAvee. I love you! I can’t imagine this world without you, either. It’s desolate and bereft . . . and I’d rather die! You hear me, Iain? I love you!”

“You love me?”

“Yes! And yes. And another yes! Desperately!”

“You’re sure? ’Tis na’ just the vampire speaking?”

“Oh, Iain. I think I fell for you the moment you claimed me at the ball. I just didn’t know it.”

“You truly love me?” Joy was radiating through him, tempering the beast, and then she added more sweet words.

“I love you! I just didn’t know what it was. Forever, Iain. I love you . . . and thank goodness you didn’t make me say it!”

He pushed up from her to slide his lips along her jaw to her neck. That’s when his breath caught in surprise at the way her hands delved beneath his kilt and shoved it open, gripping and guiding and making certain he got captured in her woman-place—exactly as she wanted.

She may have sent a cry from the throat he was lapping at before he sank his fangs in, but he didn’t hear it. He was experiencing such joy it slammed to the top of his head and near took it off. The strength of it ever-increasing, louder and larger, and so powerful it was impossible to experience anything else. That’s why he didn’t hear Grant pounding at the door, or his obedience to her words to guard the items until required, easily heard through solid wood. Everything was exactly as it should be.

THE GUARDIAN

Michele Sinclair

To E&H, you have been and will forever be the loves of my life.

Prepare for each day as if a million were to follow, but live each moment as if it could be your last.

Prologue

Northern Japan—1365

Dorian examined the unique long, slender blade that fit singularly in his palm, creating a seamless extension of his arm. “Do you have any others?” he asked as he expertly swung the sword at a phantom attacker. Pivoting on his left heel, he deftly ripped a swathe through the neatly manicured bushes. He grimaced at the unintentional destruction and forced his eyes to raise and receive the warranted glare from his brother. “My apologies.”

“Akihiko will not be pleased,” Aeolus murmured, eyeing the damage to the once beautiful shrubbery before answering his brother’s question. “Masamune was a genius. It was he who thought of combining soft and hard steel for use in swords. You are in luck that I made sure he taught his technique to others before his death. So if the katana entertains you, keep it. I shall also offer its mate. Somewhat smaller, but just as deadly.”

“I find it surprising you would so easily give up such a prize,” Dorian commented. “What is wrong with it?” he asked, speaking from past brotherly experience.

Aeolus chuckled and waved his finger, pointing at the sword. “Look at the saya,” he said, gesturing toward the handle.

Dorian shifted his grip to examine the handguard portion of the sword. The intricately carved design was a true work of art in which the lambda was prominently featured. The upside-down V-like symbol had played a role in both of the empires he had built, making it clear that the sword had been constructed for only one owner—him.

Dorian nodded, accepting the offer. Only a slight glimmer in his smoky gray eyes revealed his appreciation. He knew Aeolus understood that he was amused by little these days. Such feelings came and went with the decades. His brother was currently finding pleasure by building a dynasty in the East, an area of the world most of their kind refrained from inhabiting. Their considerable size and dark Greek features stood out, making it impossible to blend into the crowd—but discretion had never been Aeolus’s style.

“I’m impressed,” Dorian said, once again speaking about his unexpected gift. “You must be inspiring these humans for them to create such beauty.”

“And they are skilled fighters, able to defeat men twice their size,” Aeolus added, hinting that his own height was not quite the intimidator it had been elsewhere.

“Perhaps,” Dorian sighed in mock agreement. He was in no mind to argue, but he doubted Aeolus’s growing army could ever match Scotland’s Highlanders in strength or skill. Then again, the chances of the two cultures ever battling were incredibly slim.

“Why don’t you return to your beloved mountains and form something of those barbarians who live there?”

Dorian sighed and watched the sparkle of afternoon sunlight play on the waves from the safety of the shaded garden. “I already guided men to better lives—twice.”

“The Peloponnesian League and then Rome. Both times you prematurely left and both empires gave in to war and eventually crumbled so that now only a few of us can remember their glory,” his brother asserted, commencing one of their more common debates. “I’ll never understand why you abandoned them.”

The comment startled Dorian, for the discussion typically took a turn of encouragement, with Aeolus attempting to persuade him to end his wandering ways, plant roots, and establish another empire. “I would argue that I did not let it crumble. Mortals cannot grasp the value of anything beyond their own lifetime, and dealing with them is tedious and wearisome. I only walked away when staying became pointless.”

Aeolus stroked his long braided ponytail styled in the way of bushi. “Humans are bound to destroy anything great built, either by them or us.”

Careful to remain under the heavy shade the garden’s foliage provided, Dorian stepped forward and waved his arm at Aeolus’s men training in the distance with precision and stamina rarely seen in humans. “Hopefully not this?”

Aeolus sighed and nodded with knowledge of someone who had seen the future and knew what it held. “No, not anytime soon, but you and I both know that we will live to see it end. Meanwhile, it entertains me.”

Dorian stared quietly at the training fields, listening to the short staccato of the words the men barked with each movement. “I envy humans sometimes.”

“You wish to train in the sunlight?” Aeolus teased.

Dorian shook his head. The harsh rays didn’t immediately kill his kind, but they burned, making the warmth of the sun one of the few things humans enjoyed that he could not. But after nearly two millennia, the desire for sunlight no longer pulled at Dorian’s soul. “It is their mortality I covet. Living such short lives changes their view of the world.”

“It limits them, you mean.”

“Aye,” Dorian agreed. “And such ignorance is something to be desired.”

Aeolus shook his head. “Think, brother, you have been here in Japan, what? Five short years? To us, an extended vacation, but to a human that is a significant portion of their brief life. If you are to envy a mortal being, then envy a spawn. They at least live long enough to taste a sample of what life could be like.”

Dorian arched a single brow. Aeolus had a point, but a spawn’s lifetime was just long enough to make them crave true immortality. As a result, they were consumed with extending their already long lives. In the end, they possessed the same flaw as humans. Greed, something immortals understood to be unnecessary—and unfulfilling.

Aeolus and Dorian followed the green canopied path back to the house, pausing to look out at the calm bay where fishing vessels were returning with the afternoon’s catch. “You are welcome to continue to stay as long as you like, but your increasing boredom will not be alleviated here. You should find Ionas. He tends to keep your mind occupied . . . for at least a while.”

Dorian grimaced but kept his eyes focused on the bay. Aeolus was right. He was bored. For the past couple of centuries he had passed the time fighting, mostly covertly, and often as a Scot, just to antagonize his nephew. Ionas had initiated the Viking raids in an effort to prove a point—civility was not a requirement to conquer a people. Dorian believed otherwise. Either grow and prosper or be vanquished to the next brutal bunch of nomads overtly seeking power. All people secretly wished for a better life—no matter who they were or where they resided. Ionas held fast that it was power not prosperity that drove men. An old circular argument that had no end.

“I’m not Ionas’s keeper.”

“Who is? Who could be for any of us, at that point?”

It had been nearly two hundred years since Ionas went away to lick his wounds after losing their last quarrel. Communication concerning that part of the world rarely came to the distant islands Aeolus had chosen for his current home, but Dorian had no doubt his nephew was hatching up a new way to spoil the majestic lands Dorian had grown to love. To his kind, revenge was not something rushed or personal, but an art that required time to both plan and execute, a simple concept mortals could not grasp.

Unfortunately, to learn of his nephew’s newest brutal scheme meant interacting with humans, something Dorian now avoided whenever possible. Humans were ingenious, but tedious. Their short lifespan affected everything about them—their thoughts, ambitions, desires, accomplishments, and most especially their relationships. And yet, dawdling, when it came to Ionas, was nearly a guarantee of spending even more time mingling with mortals to clean up the mess. Two hundred years was not a lot of time, but it was enough to recover and plan bigger and yet less obvious forms of revenge.

Dorian twirled the long sword effortlessly in his palm, letting the sleek edges catch the light as he debated the idea of returning to Scotland. Never had Dorian held any blade of its like, and though he knew it was a petty emotion well beneath him, he secretly enjoyed the idea of irritating his nephew Ionas by possessing it. “I think it’s time to check on Kilnhurst,” he finally said after some time.

“And perhaps find another thorn to stick in Ionas’s side?” Aeolus asked, echoing Dorian’s thoughts. “He wasn’t pleased with the last one.”

“Nay. Just stop whatever he is planning.”

“Same thing,” Aeolus argued.

“Come with me. Last time you had fun, if I recall.”

“I was in between children then.”

“So?” Dorian remarked. Like him, Aeolus disliked coupling with spawns, which left one feeling more empty than satisfied. But his brother had no issue mating with a human, something he did regularly and not just with one. At first, Dorian believed Aeolus’s seemingly constant desire for more children was driven by the hope of eventually producing another immortal. But the mysterious inherited element that made their immediate family nosferatu was too diluted in their offspring to grant the burden of perpetual life. Their children could not digest blood. As a result, they ate meat and lived like all other humans—briefly. After nearly two millennia of watching Aeolus continue with his cavorting ways, Dorian decided that his brother’s affinity for human female flesh and the resulting mortal offspring was sincere and most likely would never change.

Aeolus shrugged, acknowledging Dorian’s simple but telling comment. “Still, this time our nephew is all yours. I intend to spend the next several decades seeing what these Eastern men can achieve. They are good, quick, and surprisingly clever.”

Dorian laughed out loud, hearing the spark of genuine interest in his eldest brother’s voice. “Well, ‘ruler of the winds,’ can you spare me a ship?”

Aeolus returned the chuckle. “An ancient title I have not heard for some time. I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you two ships and let you keep one. Just return both crews, and send back news of Ionas and whatever else might be of interest. When do you want to leave?”

“Soon,” Dorian lied.

“I know you, dear brother. Your voice says indifference, but Scotland holds your heart like this place holds mine. You may pretend otherwise, but now that you have decided to return, I know you are quite eager to depart.”

Dorian continued to stare out at the bay, which was now crowded with anchored fishing boats due to impending nightfall. Yes, he loved Scotland. Living among the massive peaks made him feel vulnerable, ignorant—mortal. It had been one of the few places where his unusual height and size did not look out of place.

But Aeolus was wrong about his desire to return. Then again, his brother was unaware of the real reason Dorian had left his beloved home.

Chapter One

Badenoch, Scotland—1365

Moirae Deincourt rounded the last turn of the keep’s steps and stopped at the door before exiting. She extended her hand out the opening and sighed as cool droplets hit her skin. At least the afternoon rain had slowed to a sprinkle. She surveyed the path across the small bailey toward the noisy party held in the great hall. Glenneyrie was not an extensive castle. There were several larger in the area, most notably the vacant Kilnhurst only an hour’s hard ride away, but Glenneyrie’s smaller size suited her needs.

The two-story keep was made of stone and completely enclosed, allowing entry and exit through an attached tower that also formed part of the gatehouse. The other inner buildings, including the great hall, had been built of wood. Aside from the keep, the only other structure made of stone was the small but functional curtain wall surrounding the castle, making it neither a sought-after prize nor an insecure shelter. Ideal for Moirae, who required a home that provided some degree of comfort and security, but one that also didn’t draw attention.

Unfortunately, Glenneyrie’s occupants and visitors could not be categorized similarly.

Moirae took a deep breath and hobbled toward the party. Several men stood in her way, but not a one looked directly at her or moved to allow her easy passage. Moirae paid no attention to their rudeness. Being ignored was far better than the alternative—the subject of deliberate ridicule. With the flawless skin of youth, long honey-kissed hair, and a tall thin frame, she was just shy of beautiful, needing only a few more womanly curves to transform her into a stunning vision. But it was not her immature bosom that kept men away. It was her less-than-perfect leg.

Some called the night she turned seventeen a tragedy, others called it a miracle. Caught in a burning barn, she should have died along with her beloved grandmother and mother. The fact she had defied death and learned to walk with only a limp after being crushed by a beam was indeed a miracle. But her family’s death had been no accident. Moirae’s memory of that horrid night had not faded with time. Just the opposite. Their death had become the sole motivator of her life.

Moirae held her breath as she maneuvered through the mixture of rotund, brawny, and bony male bodies, all needing a bath. The doors to the great hall, like usual, were open, beckoning those to enter and make merry with their laird and fellow clansmen. She stepped inside and instinctively rubbed her aching thigh, stiff from a week of inactivity—something she intended to rectify before dawn.

Faking a smile, Moirae waved at the overweight man who fancied himself a Highland laird. Raised as a Lowlander, the man was no more a Highland warrior than she, but he had inherited the title, and until he was unseated, the man would frivolously spend his clan’s wealth on a stream of festivities. Until such time, she would stay and pretend to be his cousin.

He acknowledged her presence with a bare movement of his chin and slight flutter of his fat fingers. She didn’t miss his look of relief as she headed away from him to the other side of the room. The debauched man was spooked by her, but she came with a sizeable purse, and in return, he gave her a private room and—with the exception of requiring her to make token appearances at his parties—he left her alone. The arrangement had served them both well, and she hoped it would for a few more years before someone became fed up with his ineptness and seized control, forcing her to find other arrangements. And whenever that day arrived, she would just disappear. No one would search for her. Upon her grandmother’s wrongful death, she had become truly alone—a fact Moirae had only just recently begun to accept.

She had arrived later than usual to the party, and the hall’s small gathering room had already become quite full, making it difficult to sit down at the bench she normally occupied. Typically, she liked to come early and leave the same way, but tonight, she sought information that came with the later crowd—more specifically, the clan’s most effusive and notorious three gossips.

“Lady Moirae!” they all exclaimed simultaneously in mock surprise. The largest and most vocal of the women, Esa, continued with a lopsided grin. “You missed our last two celebrations.”

Moirae swallowed the sarcastic desire to ask which babe had learned not to soil himself. Recently, the celebrations, as Esa generously called them, had been so numerous and prompted for such ludicrous reasons, Moirae wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it was the laird’s achievement of finally seducing his chambermaids they were celebrating. Instead, she returned Esa’s smile, knowing that if any of the clansmen ever changed their minds and decided to pay Moirae attention, the warm female welcome she just received would be her last. But as long as she was no threat, her presence would be neither overtly welcomed nor shunned.

“Perhaps you overslept, my lady?” asked Saundra with a touch of malice, hinting at Moirae’s strange sleeping habits.

Moirae shrugged off the rhetorical question. Fact was the evening suited her more than the day. As a result, she spent her nights awake and her days asleep, which made her seem odd to others. But again Moirae didn’t care. It enabled her to avoid people and engage in more reclusive activities. “Enion is dead,” Moirae offered, wondering if they would even care.

“The old hunter?” Esa half asked.

“Aye,” Moirae replied, not correcting the gossipmonger. To Esa, Enion had been an archer, the lowest of all fighting men and, therefore, nothing more than a peasant. But to Moirae, he had been one of the best bowmen of Badenoch, a skill he had done his best to teach her. The man had been her only true friend, serving as the father she had lost as a child and re-instilling her with a purpose for living. The least she could do was be with him during his final days.

“My son told me he had died. Nothing catching, I understand,” Esa lightly pressed, not really wanting or expecting an answer.

“Just old age,” Moirae replied, and then quickly fabricated, “I heard there was another attack.”

Being at Enion’s side for the past week, Moirae had not heard about any incidents, let alone violent ones, but knew from experience that it was best to guide the old woman away from launching into wearisome stories about her son as quickly as possible.

Esa bit down on a piece of deer meat, not even bothering to wipe the juice dribbling down her chin. With her mouth still full, she answered Moirae’s question. “Aye! Have you not heard? Twice this week.”

Moirae grimaced. Badenoch was almost entirely wild mountainous country. Its myriad skyscraping hills, glens, and lochs brought together the borders of many clans, not just a few. Consequently, skirmishes were common as the forests held some of the best deer hunting in the Highlands. The temptation to trespass and engage in petty thievery of animals and tools while hunting was too great to resist.

Bedina, whose love of gossip rivaled Esa’s, could sit quietly no longer. “Aye, and the demons are back.”

Moirae mentally dismissed the comment, for she was one of the rare few that had actually seen a demon. When the menlike creatures did reveal themselves, they rarely left anyone alive. “How do you know it was a demon?”

“Shamus said that it looked like a man but with incredible strength and had sharp teeth that dripped with blood,” Esa added.

The description caught Moirae’s attention, for if the report was true, her real enemy had finally arrived. No longer was clan infighting plaguing Badenoch’s inhabitants—but something far more menacing.

Word had arrived more than a year ago about a string of bizarre attacks in England that were slowly making their way into the Lowlands. Pillaging had been replaced by men on a destructive search for something, and all too often they killed just for pleasure. Yet just what they were looking for remained a mystery.

At first, Moirae had no interest in the outrageous rumors and had planned to leave Badenoch if and when the danger arrived, but then details that described the fearsome invaders reached Glenneyrie. The creatures raiding the houses and villagers were unlike any men anyone had ever seen—except Moirae. They were the ones who attacked her and her family the night her leg was crushed. Learning of their existence and impending arrival had changed everything.

Soon afterward, she had met Enion, began her training, and started to prepare for the day the demons would arrive. After spending nearly six months building the necessary musculature and perfecting her aim, Moirae had decided to test her abilities under the stress of real combat. As a result, the mysterious Guardian of Badenoch had come to life, defending the weak against those who harassed them.

But if the old farmer who had been ambushed during her absence knew what the demons looked like, that meant he had lived through an attack . . . but that was impossible. “Esa, how did Shamus get away?”

Esa and Bedina scoffed concurrently. “How else? The Guardian. He saved Shamus and then his kin.”

Moirae was struck dumb. Had she heard right?

“Shamus’s mother, Biddy, actually saw him,” Esa continued with a wide, toothy grin just before taking another bite.

Bedina licked her lips, loving that she had Moirae’s rapt attention. “Biddy said the Guardian was the finest man she had ever seen.”

“Huge—” added Esa.

“Aye, huge, with black hair and matching eyes and riding a new horse as dark and large as the Guardian himself.”

“Biddy called the horse a nightmare,” Esa interjected, remarking on the story Shamus’s mother had spoken of just last night.

Perturbed at Esa for interrupting, Bedina frowned at her friend and stated pointedly, “Biddy also said the Guardian used a long thin sword made of moonlight that could send the demons flying.”

Moirae sat in shock, barely registering what the two women were jabbering. With each new description, Moirae’s jaw became more rigid and the outrage in her emerald eyes grew. Moonlight? A sword? A new horse! All things she had been forced to avoid because of what she was—a woman.

“Shamus said he looked like a Highlander but didn’t sound like one from around here,” Esa continued to prattle, smacking her lips.

“Oh, his voice!” Bedina sighed longingly as if she had been the one to hear it. “You should hear Biddy describe it! Deep, like a hero’s song.”

Moirae groaned, throwing her face into her hands. A deep voice! Whoever had the impudence to take over the role she had so carefully created was executing it in a way she had only dreamed of doing.

Placing her palms on the table, Moirae rose to her feet. The thief may have more flair than her, but she was not about to surrender the role of Guardian without a fight. It was her idea. She had earned that title after a significant amount of pain and anguish, and most importantly, the role was critical to her plans. So she was not about to share—let alone relinquish—the one thing in her life that gave her pure satisfaction.

The invaders had gone for Shamus and his family, which meant they were near Loch Ericht, where several dozen farmers made their living. If rumors continued to be correct, the demons would be in the area for weeks, possibly months, randomly attacking households before finally moving on. Plenty of time for her to find them and seek her revenge.

First, however, she had to end someone’s misplaced ambitions. With tonight’s party, many would be traveling at night and the possibility of an attack would be high. The fraudulent Guardian was no doubt riding nearby, hoping to play hero.

Well, let him, thought Moirae. Tonight it would be his turn for a surprise. For whoever the fool was, he had yet to meet Moirae Deincourt—the true Guardian of Badenoch.

Moirae entered the narrow passageway leading to her bedchambers and waved her hand at the servant assigned to her before entering. The girl scampered off, knowing by now that such a signal meant to leave and not return until called. The maid probably suspected much of Moirae’s activities, but she had the good sense to keep quiet. Comfortable duties and undemanding masters were rare to find, and Moirae was possibly the least difficult of any noblewoman the girl was ever likely to serve. Gossip could be incredibly alluring, but coveted positions in the castle were of even greater value.

Hearing the maid’s retreating footsteps, Moirae crossed the room and pulled out a key from around her neck to unlock the large chest at the end of the bed. Following the click, she opened the lid and pulled out the items it contained. Stripping off her gown, Moirae quickly donned the male garments of a simple linen shirt, bruchen, hose, and a dark quilted jacket. The black gambeson was designed to protect a knight’s skin from his armor, but the thick garment itself provided more than enough protection. It enabled her to preserve her two strongest advantages—speed and dexterity.

After slipping on worn boots and pulling her hair back into a single, loose braid, she grabbed a dark cape and secured the black hood in lieu of any headgear. Kicking aside the rushes, she lifted two loose floor planks to reveal the machicolation. The gap between the supporting corbels had originally been intended for defense by allowing stones to be dropped on enemies, but Moirae had found other uses for the opening. Grabbing a knotted rope from the chest, she secured it to the leg of the bed and then dropped it through the hole before scurrying down.

From there it was easy to sneak out of the keep and make her way to Enion’s stable. Someday she would have to find another option for her horse, but Enion had lived somewhat apart from the clan, and his cottage needed numerous repairs. For now, no one was eager to assume residence there.

Moirae saddled the gentle mare, which though dark brown, would never be mistaken for black or be considered large enough to be called a “nightmare.” But she was quick and seemed to understand that Moirae’s right leg could not grip like a normal rider’s, and so never turned sharp in that direction. The animal also knew Badenoch as well as she did.

Feeling the cool air whip against her face, Moirae felt a sense of peace envelop her. Some longed for the warmer months, and while she didn’t relish winter weather, the chill of night was far more preferable than the summer sun.

Tugging the reins gently to the left, Moirae rode north until the sights and sounds of the castle faded. Then she stopped, closed her eyes, and let her senses talk to her. The rain had finally completely stopped and the clouds were beginning to break apart, allowing the light from the moon to shine down—both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes Moirae had to wait, but tonight she did not have to linger for very long before she became instantly alert.

A raid was happening and it was close by.

Dorian shifted his gaze to assess each of the attackers as he rode straight into the heart of the ambush. Two humans and one spawn—Metrick, who most likely had gotten a whiff of Dorian’s arrival and was already disappearing into the Alder forest. One could change his appearance throughout the years but not his scent, and both knew of the other from years past.

Metrick had been one of Ionas’s men during their last encounter. Being only two removed from an immortal, Metrick’s expected lifespan was somewhere around 250 years, and he now reeked of the one thing a spawn most feared—imminent death. A feeling Dorian could not fathom but often envied. Death itself had no allure, but it represented mortality, which gave man the inner drive to accomplish something . . . the desire to create in order to leave behind a legacy.

With Metrick’s sudden disappearance, only two human attackers remained—both imposing physically and possessing mercenary hearts. It was very unlikely either of them knew the truth behind their being hired to terrorize and raid. So far, not a human Dorian had encountered had heard of his nephew, let alone knew what Ionas sought.

Urging his horse over the stone wall, Dorian grabbed the largest man by the head and tossed him aside. He then dismounted and headed for the one dragging a woman who appeared to be in her mid to late fifties out of her home. Reaching forward, Dorian gripped the assailant’s beefy shoulder, and with one hand, flung him close to where his associate lay. The crack heard from his head hitting the trunk of the tree made it known he was dead.

Damn. If he intended to eat tonight, it would have to be soon while the blood was warm. Not that he couldn’t ingest it cold, but drinking stale blood was the equivalent of eating rotten food. One avoided the idea.

“You!” Dorian barked at the haggard-looking farmer standing immobile in the doorway. He then pointed at the hunched female form on the ground and the two small blond heads cautiously poking out from behind their father. “Get your mother and children inside, and stay there.” The emphasis was enough to produce action from the stunned, aged Highlander, who scrambled to do as he was told.

The moment the door closed, Dorian went to his horse and removed his sword. He then moved to stand beside the two limp bodies. He inhaled the scent of blood and then kicked the backside of the man pretending to be dead, flipping him over. Like the others, Ionas had hired them to search for something.

The attacker’s blue eyes flew open wide as Dorian kneeled down. “What were you told to look for?”

Visible fear rippled through the man’s frame. “I don’t know.”

Dorian spun the long sword in his palm and sliced the air, stopping just before the blade penetrated the man’s throat. “I won’t ask again.”

“An . . . an . . . old wo-wo-woman,” the man finally managed to get out. “One w-w-with scars on her neck. Sh-sh-e has something the white-h-h-haired one wants. He—he’s sending men everywhere to hunt for h-h-her.”

Dorian grimaced. The white-haired one meant Patras—his nephew’s lead henchman for the past few centuries. The albino spawn was intelligent and ruthless, and Dorian would have thought him to be dead by now. Why was Patras spending his final years helping Ionas look for an old woman with scars on her neck? Once bitten, humans either died or changed. Only in rare circumstances would they live, and then only if a blood eater punctured the skin but did not feed. Disease was one of the few things that would stop a feeding once begun.

So, Ionas was interested in a human female who survived not only an offensive-tasting ailment, but being bitten. Why?

Sensing there was no more information to be retrieved, Dorian pressed the blade into the man’s neck without further thought. Whoever the mercenary was, he would not be missed and his disappearance would cause no stir. Standing, Dorian lifted the nape of the now lifeless form and bent his head to feed, but the scent of someone nearby halted him before he punctured the warm flesh.

The onlooker was a female, and she was young. She smelled human sweet . . . and yet different. She was watching him from behind the untended hedge opposite to where he rode in. He inhaled her fragrance again, and smiled. She was wearing a man’s chausses and a wool gambeson . . . and the girl bathed too often to be a pauper. Whoever the lass was, she wasn’t there by accident.

Curiosity momentarily fluttered through him, but the interest the girl generated was not enough to seek her out. He was not hungry enough to deal with the retribution of killing her, a necessary consequence if he decided to let her see him feed. Disappointed, Dorian released his hold and let the body fall to the ground with a thump. He had fed last night, and if need be, he could go several more days without nourishment, but he had been looking forward to a quick drink.

After taking one last whiff of the woman’s tempting scent, Dorian went to his horse and, in a single, graceful leap, jumped on the animal’s back. Urging it into a gallop, he headed straight for the hedge. With a single kick to the flanks, the destrier went soaring over the woman’s head. As Dorian flew by, he caught another whiff and looked down.

Brilliant jade eyes flashed at him in the partial moonlight as wisps of light brown hair flew around her incredibly striking face. For a brief second, the temptation to seek her out seized his instincts. The young woman’s gaze had not been filled with horror, but with seething anger. He knew as he headed over the fields that the look would haunt him.

What was she doing out alone? Why did she despise him for saving an old man and his family? Was it that he had killed the two men attacking them? But mostly he asked himself, why did he care?

It had been many centuries since a human woman had caught his attention beyond that of fulfilling simple physical need. And though he would admit to being mildly intrigued, it was not nearly enough to compel him to be foolish. So, whoever the sweet-smelling maiden was, she would have to remain a mystery.

Moirae almost had not stopped in time as she rode in with bow and arrow prepped to stop the attack. At the last moment, she realized her competition had already arrived and was more than able to handle the once three, now two men. Hanging her bow on the saddle, she quietly dismounted and crept into the prickly hedge. There she spied the dark, lean figure fulfilling her role as Guardian in a way she had only dreamed of doing.

Regrettably, her rival was good. Worse, he possessed a grace using a weapon she had never before witnessed from any man. He was also much more agile than she would have guessed, given his size and muscular frame. His features remained obscure in the shadows, but his hair was indeed dark and styled shorter than the average Highlander’s. Only when his horse had flown over her head had she been able to glimpse the color of his eyes. They were not dark as she had been told, but gray, like a perpetual fog that lured innocents in, causing them to be forever lost.

Every instinct screamed, Avoid the fog! Instead, Moirae got on her horse to follow him, obeying the other inner voice reminding her of who he was and just what he had stolen from her.

Unfortunately, the thief’s mount was larger and faster, making catching up to him an impossibility, despite her superior knowledge of the mountains and lochs. But it did not matter. Moirae slowed her mount down and stared into the distant shadows. She knew where the imposter was going. Kilnhurst. A place everyone knew to avoid. It may be unoccupied, but it was not undefended.

The man was heading to his death.

Chapter Two

Dorian raced through the open gatehouse, slowing as he approached the stables. His horse, now knowing the nightly ritual, entered his stall after his master slipped off its back.

Frustration filled Dorian. Three fruitless nights had gone by. With no attacks to stop, he had no sources of information. Who Ionas was looking for and why the woman was important remained a mystery. Dorian could feel the tiny interest he once held about his nephew’s plans begin to ebb.

He rounded the stable door and was about to yank it close when he spied a brown mare eating hay in one of the stalls. Cursing, he took a deep breath and confirmed the young female who witnessed the attack that happened earlier that week was nearby. He shut the door softly and let his gaze sweep the courtyard until he saw a dark figure leaning against the inner wall of the gatehouse. Discarding men’s clothes for those fitting a noble, the woman was wearing a dark bliaut and a black hooded mantle to shield her from the icy air. No longer was she hiding in the shadows, but standing outside in plain sight, waiting for him, unafraid of being inside Kilnhurst Castle—infamous for the disappearance of all who dared to venture near its walls.

Ionas had built the stronghold decades prior when he pushed Edward I of England to erect stone forts to better withstand attacks. Kilnhurst was large, nothing like the estates Dorian had inhabited when he lived in Crete a millennium prior, but he had taken great satisfaction at capturing the castle from his nephew. And though Kilnhurst was far from lavish, it was ideally located in the heart of the Highlands and built to survive Scotland’s brutal northern weather over many years. It also conveyed an uncomfortable sensation that made humans want to avoid it. Something the young woman clearly was oblivious to or too dim-witted to realize.

Not in the mood to tangle with an obstinate and senseless human female, Dorian was about to turn and enter the castle through a back door. But before he looked away, she reached up and pulled down her hood, revealing rich brown hair, neither dark nor light, intricately braided and piled into an elaborate knot. Rebellious strands that had won the fight to come loose curled into ringlets, highlighting the pale skin of her unusually long nape.

The woman shifted and looked in his direction, causing the moonlight to catch her face. Only slightly narrow, the oval shape accentuated her cheekbones and emphasized the fullness of her lips. But it was not her angelic features that had caused him to hesitate. It was her eyes. The dark green orbs did not shine with innocence and youth as her scent indicated but belonged to an adult woman—who was still every bit as angry as she had been three nights ago.

Moirae fought restlessness, wondering when her nemesis would return. She had mentally rehearsed a hundred times how she was going to handle his arrival. She would patiently wait as he bellowed about her presence, and then she would make it clear that he was unneeded and, more importantly, unwanted, as the Guardian. But the longer she was forced to wait, the more unlikely she was going to remain the calm herald she had planned to be.

Moirae closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The scents around Kilnhurst were unlike anywhere else. There was an absence of fear, sorrow, anger, and despair—all the negative emotions that accompanied the hard lives of those who lived in a castle. In its place was something dark and vacant and strangely welcoming. She suspected the castle’s designer had hoped to evoke another feeling, but to her, the effect was enticing, not repellent.

Until three nights ago, she had never ventured close to Kilnhurst. Rumors had circulated for years about those who dared to breach its walls supposedly disappearing, never to be heard from again. And yet, she had watched this squatter come and go without concern.

Built to be a fortress, six equal, three-story towers formed the shape of a hexagon and were connected by a double curtain wall. Within, there were none of the usual internal structures. No great hall, kitchens, buttery, silversmith, or other buildings one expected to see. Only a well, the stables, and the gatehouse were recognizable. Besides the formidable walls, the castle’s main defense was a moat. A sizeable one that fully surrounded Kilnhurst, preventing any entry unless the gatehouse bridge was let down—as it was tonight.

For two nights, Moirae had sat in the forest, waiting for an event and the chance to confront the dark avenger who thought to steal her role as Guardian. But no attacks came. Frustrated, she had decided to ride to Kilnhurst and hope for a chance to intercept the want-to-be hero and persuade him to leave the area. Seeing the drawbridge down, she had darted inside, uncaring of the rumors, and waited for the competition.

Patience, however, had left her hours ago. Dawn would soon arrive and Moirae was debating if she should leave when a small branch snapped to her right. She immediately froze. No one ever snuck up on her. It was impossible. She inhaled. Nothing. And yet every one of her other senses screamed that someone was beside her.

She spun around to see a large figure not quite ten feet away. Though silhouetted by the moonlight, she could still discern enough features to confirm he was the same man she had witnessed fighting the other night. He was tall enough to be a Highlander and radiated a primitive masculine vitality like those men born in the north, but he did not belong to these majestic mountains any more than she did.

He lacked the overall brawn Highlanders possessed, and yet, Moirae suspected he could take care of himself and any enemy that happened along. His face was formed by severe angles and planes, creating high cheekbones and a rock-hard jaw. His nose was unusually straight, and his mouth was broad and firm. With the exception of his dark hair, which looked seductively ruffled, there was no softness about him anywhere. No wonder she hadn’t sensed him. She doubted this man surrendered to any kind of strong emotion.

He walked toward her with a poised, almost erotic grace that assaulted her senses. If he were anyone else . . . and if she were free of her past, she might have been interested enough in him to make a play for his attentions. But her life had another purpose, and a man—especially this one—was not to play a part in it.

“I wasn’t aware you had returned,” she stated simply.

Dorian was impressed. She exuded calm composure in both stance and voice. He would almost think she was bored if not for the jutting out of her chin. “That’s because I didn’t want you to know.”

Her eyes instantly flashed with anger and he inhaled. Only true, full-blood nosferatu could sense animals, even inflict their emotional will on them. And yet what stood in front of him was an enigma. It wasn’t that he couldn’t smell her. He could. She was definitely a human, and despite her underdeveloped bosom, he knew without a doubt that she was a mature woman in her mid-twenties. And yet, only his eyes could discern the obvious frustration that exuded from her every pore. Perhaps he was hungrier than he had thought.

“Find no one to save tonight?”

Her caustic question surprised Dorian. Usually women, especially young human ones, were uneasy in his presence. A few pretended to be enamored, but he could not recall in his entire life one that was sincerely defiant. And though he could not be certain without being able to smell her scent, one thing was unmistakable . . . no fear reflected in her green depths. His curiosity took hold. “And just who might you be?”

“Someone you should listen to.”

The man grinned, and the unexpected response shook Moirae’s core. He had not looked like the kind of man who would even know how to smile. It relaxed his eyes, and their smoky color went from cool and distancing to hypnotic, causing her to shiver with apprehension. Then it suddenly occurred to her that was exactly what he wanted.

Swallowing, Moirae regained her composure and reminded herself that she was there for a reason and just because the thief had turned out to be attractive changed nothing. Moirae forced her eyes to look into his. He was still just smiling, but she could see that he was more than slightly amused. He was laughing at her. He thought her a silly, little girl and was toying with her for amusement. That was a mistake.

Smile while you can, for you won’t be very soon, she silently promised. She flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from her gown and then stared at him directly in the eye. “You are an interloper, stranger. You are unwanted, and most of all you are a fool.”

Moirae added the insult at the last moment. The man may think he was fighting regular thugs like those of the other night, but there were far scarier things in the area. Things only a fool would intentionally seek out.

The realization that she was just such a person hit her at the same time she perceived the change in his expression. The menacing scowl he suddenly wore should have caused her to quiver with fear, but all Moirae could feel was elation. She suspected it was a rare occasion that someone could cause emotion to rise from this man of stone. Good, maybe if she made him mad enough, he would want to leave and never return.

Dorian stilled as he assimilated the intentional slight. Then a cold anger flared to life. The time for playing with humans was over. He pivoted and stepped into the stables, returning less than a minute later, handing the woman the reins to her horse. Ignoring him, she refused to take them, and instead, she arched a single brow most aggravatingly as she reached up to unhook her cloak and remove it. The cheeky woman was actually refusing to leave!

With her mantle off, he could see that while her slender frame made her appear petite, she was far from small. Rather than frail as he first perceived, her unusual height reminded him of what it felt like to be a man and not a giant among men. A flicker of sexual desire coursed through him, immediately followed by a flash of self-directed anger.

He had learned long ago how to control his physical urges and let them surface only when he was guaranteed of no entanglements. It wasn’t that he refused to mate with humans. Just the opposite. He preferred to be with them, as their passions were uncontrolled and less manufactured. But he had learned the hard way that humans and his kind were incompatible, for immortals and mortals could not coexist for any length of time. Human lives were too short and it affected everything about them—their thoughts, ambitions, desires, accomplishments—but most especially their interactions with others.

Dorian was just about to pick the audacious woman up, physically place her on her horse, and force her to leave, when she threw her coat over the saddle’s pommel and took the reins from his still extended hand. Then, in one smooth movement, she leapt onto her horse and looked down. For the first time, she smiled, and he knew it was because of his openly shocked expression. Very few men had ever possessed the strength and agility she had just demonstrated. In his experience, only nosferatu or their spawns had such abilities, both of which she was decidedly not.

“Heed my counsel,” she warned. “Leave Badenoch and this castle. Both harbor great danger.”

“For you maybe, but I know Kilnhurst’s owner. And I am fairly certain that you do not.”

Moirae swallowed as frustration began to take over. “Badenoch holds danger for those who ride at night. Halt your acts of heroism. Your help is neither welcomed nor wanted by those who live here. Another protects these lands. Stop or incur the risk of being in the path of their arrows.”

Dorian glanced at the bow and arrow hanging on the hindquarters of her horse. Was she actually referring to herself?

Moirae swung her horse around, but before she could leave, Dorian stepped in front of the gate’s opening, preventing her exit. Her beautiful eyes widened in surprise. “Just who are you to think you can order me about?” he demanded.

A wintry smile overtook her expression. “My name is Moirae. Moirae Deincourt. I, and I alone, am the Guardian of Badenoch.” Then, with a swift kick, she skillfully guided her horse around his frame and disappeared into the night.

Dorian stood transfixed in a state of shock. Moirae. The name was not Scottish, Gaelic, or even English. It was old. Very old. And he had not heard it in a long time. Turning, he went to the gatehouse and raised the drawbridge, ensuring the woman could not again appear when least expected.

Moirae. “Why did she have to be a Moirae?” he asked himself aloud before turning to the obscure door that led inside. Moirae was the name of the fabled Goddess of Destiny, and while, he knew there was no entity that controlled the thread of every person’s life from birth to death, the few times he had ever encountered a Moirae, his life had changed in ways he never could predict.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he should leave. Now. Tonight. . . and yet, even as Dorian thought the words, he knew he was going nowhere.

At least, not yet.

Chapter Three

Moirae realized too late that tonight’s attack was not like the others. The family was not the intended victim—she was the target. And whoever was after her was not taking any chances. The most men she had ever encountered during a raid was four, but tonight, at least a dozen, maybe more, surrounded her. And they were closing in fast.

As quickly as she could, Moirae restrung her bow and shot arrows into the flesh of as many assailants as she could see, but severely outnumbered, she knew it was only a matter of time before one reached her. She had taken down at least six or seven when a large hand clutched her shoulder from behind and knocked her off her horse and onto the ground. A second man lunged at her with a sword. Reacting on instinct, she sat up and reached for the never-before-used blade dangling off her saddle and pulled it forward with lightning speed just in time to deflect a mortal blow. Unfortunately, she had not been fast enough to avoid the strike altogether, and pain shot through her side as jagged metal slashed through her clothing and into her skin.

Moirae dropped the heavy sword Enion had insisted she take with her despite her lack of skill. Until now, she had always fought at a distance with a bow and arrow. It enabled her to keep her mysterious identity and prevented her from advertising her weakness with the blade. The man pulled back and started to swing his sword in the air, flamboyantly preparing for another attempt.

Moirae wondered if death might finally be upon her. Relief mixed with a strong desire to live flooded her senses as she stared into the eyes of the brute who was going to issue the final blow. Then instinct took hold again and, without warning, the attacker’s face changed from glee to shock as the dagger she yanked off his dead friend’s belt plunged into his chest. Then the world went dark from the impact of her head hitting the ground as he fell upon her.

Dorian let go a stream of Greek curses. He had been aware of the attack, but because he had sensed no spawns, only humans, he had held back—too far back. He knew the woman was there, but she had claimed to be the Guardian of these lands and demanded to be left alone. Fool.

His fury with Moirae was genuine, but he was equally furious with himself for believing that because of her speed and skill of getting onto a horse she could actually defend herself.

He had yet to determine the purpose of Ionas’s raids, but Dorian was relatively sure they were based on a personal quest versus something larger and involving revenge. Whoever his nephew was looking for most likely wasn’t in the vicinity, and Ionas would soon be sending his henchman farther north, if he hadn’t already. Dorian was dithering on leaving just as she had “asked” when at the last moment he decided to see for himself how a sprite of a girl performed as the Guardian of Badenoch.

To prevent her or her attackers from knowing of his presence, he had kept at a distance. At first, he had been impressed at the speed and accuracy of her shots, but then everything changed. The numbers of assailants suddenly grew and became too much for her to handle alone with only a bow and arrow. Within seconds they had her surrounded. Dorian instinctively readied his katana and spurred his horse into a full gallop.

He peered through the distance, seeing Moirae on top of her horse. He yelled out, but it was too late. One of the attackers came up from behind and knocked her down to the ground, lifting his sword high before swiftly plunging it down. The smell of her blood filled the air. A second later Dorian was upon them. With inhuman strength plus a millennia of training and expertise in combat, he ended the fight, killing the remaining half dozen men within minutes.

Yanking one body up by his hair, Dorian bit down into the neck and drank the warm, life-giving beverage. He threw the corpse away and studied the large mass that hid Moirae’s’s body. He could still smell her sweetness. Human women with her spirit were rare, and Dorian regretted that he had not been able to save her.

Repugnance filled him at the absurd idea. Aeolus was right. He was bored. He must be for it was incredulous that a single woman’s death could mean anything to him. Why should it? It changed nothing in the larger scheme of things. Thousands of mortals died every day, and yet they still bred, rebuilt their numbers, and continued with their greed. It had taken several centuries for him to comprehend that even an immortal could not change the nature of man. Humans were who they were—limited by their own mortality.

Still, Moirae had intrigued him.

He reached down and started to pull off the one who had dealt the death wound when he heard her groan.

“Moirae?” he whispered, easily tossing aside the massive body that had her pinned to the ground. Her shirt and mantle were soaked in blood, but he could hear her breathing. She was still alive.

On impulse, he lifted her into his arms and jumped back into his saddle. Holding her close, he rode as fast as he could back to Kilnhurst, unthinking of what he was doing and why. The attraction he felt for her wasn’t fading. If anything, it was growing.

It had been too long since he had encountered anyone interesting, and even longer since he had been with a beautiful woman. Having both in his arms pounding his legs across the countryside was lunacy. But the idea of letting her die had suddenly become unacceptable, leaving him with two choices. Take her to safety and find her help or make her his spawn. And he was not about to do that.

True nosferatu were limited to those direct descendants of Hellen, but with each generation, the blood disease that made them immortal became weaker. No nosferatu had been born in over fifteen centuries. A bite from one, however, could change a human into a spawn with enhanced abilities. And while spawns lived for time spans much longer than that of a human, they were not immortal. Spawns could create spawns, but with each siring, the regenerative element became more diluted, significantly hampering their offspring’s abilities and lifetime. Not a single spawn was truly immortal.

Dorian glanced down at Moirae’s limp body, and the flawless white skin of her long neck caught his eye. He had no desire to fall back into impulsive feeding habits that too often created unforeseen results with impacts that lasted far too long. Still, she was tempting.

Upon the clattering sound of his mount’s hooves hitting the rockier soil, Moirae’s eyes popped open to reveal haunting green orbs. The blood on her leine proved she was injured, but the fire in her eyes suggested that she was not quite in the mortal danger he had believed. Quite the opposite. Moirae Deincourt was very much alive and very angry.

Moirae’s senses told her where she was before she even opened her eyes. Elation that she was not dead had been almost instantly replaced by the realization of just who had saved her. She was mortified. The man probably had witnessed her humiliating failure and had taken pity on her. Well, she needed no one’s compassion, and certainly not his. She opened her eyes and flashed him her most withering look.

He blinked. Good.

In an effort to sit up, she pushed against his chest, but that turned out to be a mistake. He was not wearing a cape, only an unusually dark, smooth, shimmering shirt. The loosely strung garment allowed her fingers to touch his flesh, from which she immediately recoiled. He was rock hard and cool to the touch, as if he had been outside just a little too long. But more than that, the sensation of feeling his skin excited her, a feeling no man had ever induced.

“Let me down,” she weakly commanded, annoyed that her voice betrayed what he was doing to her.

When her flaccid demand resulted in no response and no release, it bolstered her indignation and she tried again. “Let me down now!”

“You’re hurt.”

Her annoyance was growing with each second, and the dismissal in his voice was more than she could take. “I assure you that I am not hurt,” she replied and began to squirm in ingenious ways that should have secured her freedom. But the damn man seemed to predict her every move.

She had thought he would tire of fighting her, but it seemed to be a game of wills, and she refused to be the first to surrender, so the struggle continued right until they reached the winding path that indicated Kilnhurst was in sight. He raised a hand to some unknown lookout, and immediately the drawbridge lowered just in time for their arrival. The portcullis raised and they went through, stopping just inside the bailey. He lowered her to her feet before throwing his own leg over the animal’s back and landing on the ground with a thump.

A figure suddenly appeared from nowhere and just as quickly disappeared with the horse. So her opposition wasn’t staying alone in the castle. Well, of course he wasn’t. And he did say that he was not trespassing.

Moirae was so lost in thought and questions, she had not realized her savior was about to disappear into the gatehouse, when he turned around and asked, “Are you coming, Lady Destiny? Or would you prefer to again profess your skills as the Guardian out here in the night air?”

Moirae gritted her teeth, clenching her lips together even tighter. Self-humiliation was one thing—being openly mocked was another. Squaring her chin, she cocked a brow at him, and then moved as gracefully as her bad leg would allow through the opening. Only then did she grasp just where she was. Inside Kilnhurst.

The wooden gatehouse entrance looked like a simple tower door, but it opened into something quite unexpected. She had assumed she would see a typical storage area or perhaps a stairway opening that led to the castle’s curtain wall. What she saw was nothing of the kind. She was indeed in a room, and opposite of her was an ornate archway that led to a hallway on its other side. Understanding suddenly flooded her. Kilnhurst’s double curtain walls were not just protective barriers but formed a huge quasi-building that went around the complex. The idea was unique and Moirae was positive no one else had conceived of such an idea. Such a structure would have aroused envy and eventual duplication.

Moirae could feel the dark figure smiling with pride as he sauntered past her, indicating for her to follow. It was the first time she had been able to sense any emotion from him. And while part of her was relieved to know she could sense him at least some of the time, her focus was on assessing the man who had turned her life upside down.

He was a noble, or had been raised like one, for there was nothing subservient about him. His stride was long and smooth so that he appeared to glide—not walk. Far from feminine, the controlled movement gave him an aura of power most men only dreamed of possessing. Moirae found herself growing jealous as she did her best to disguise her ungraceful limp, which was near impossible at the pace he was moving.

Deliberately slowing, she let him disappear ahead and continued to pass through one archway, and then another, following the bend of the dimly lit hallway that conformed to the circular structure of the curtain wall. Sporadically, she would see doors. Most were closed, but a few were open, enabling her to glimpse the dark interior. Most appeared unused, and if the rooms had windows, they were not visible. The resulting darkness created a comforting atmosphere she had grown to prefer.

Turning one last time, Moirae saw Dorian standing in front of large double doors, waiting for her to catch up. Upon seeing her, he opened them and stood aside, allowing her to pass. As she moved by him, she inhaled, getting a whiff of two large dogs hidden farther down the hall. Both were alert to their presence and ready to attack if signaled, but just what their master wanted, she had no clue. Once again she could not discern any emotion from Dorian. Only her sense of sight and touch told her that he was there. It was as if he had the ability to turn on and off his feelings. She was tempted to ask how but had no idea how to phrase the question without revealing too much about herself.

With a puzzled brow, she entered the room, which, unlike the others she had spied, was glowing with candles that cast shadows everywhere. Moirae got the impression she was being invited into his lair. The leather furniture was large and padded and she knew no one local had made such items. There was an elaborate desk in one corner with both recognizable and foreign items on its surface. But the most remarkable object was on a narrow table centered on the far wall. Propped in a wooden frame was the unusual, deadly sword she had witnessed him use that first night. Beside it was an empty holder, hinting that he possessed more than one of the rare weapons.

“You have nice taste, Laird,” she said, turning around to face him.

The title caused a slight smile to crack his deadpan expression. For a brief instant, Moirae could once again sense him. She had surprised him and he had enjoyed the feeling. “I am no laird. I just own a castle,” he corrected her.

Moirae shrugged her chin, glad to learn that he did not just know Kilnhurst’s owner—the castle actually belonged to him. It was also heartening to hear him admit the truth about his lack of a title. She had known he was not a laird, but in her experience, most men would have let such an incorrect assumption continue for as long as they could benefit from it. “I wonder what clan you purchased it from.”

“Does it matter?”

“Aye,” she answered, gazing at him intently before continuing. “But I have a feeling that asking questions about how you came to live in this place would be a waste of time.” She licked her lips. “The previous owner had nice taste.”

“My nephew still does. He prefers to live well.”

“And you?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not all of the time?” she asked, truly interested.

“ No.”

Moirae nodded with sincere understanding. “The comforts of life all too often entail unwanted complexities and responsibilities. To balance the two can be a challenge.”

Dorian attempted to suppress his shock at her comment. It simply was not a statement he had expected a human to say, let alone truly believe, especially one so young. Forcing his limbs to move, he came up behind her and reached out to touch her shoulders. “Let me take your cloak.”

Without argument, she unhooked the clasp and released the blood-soaked garment. Once again, she was wearing men’s breeches and a leine with a gambeson. The woolen armor had been slashed down the side and was still wet with her blood. “Take that off,” he ordered. “I need to examine your wound.”

Moirae, still looking around the room, froze, forgetting just how she had come to be there. “I don’t have one,” she said truthfully.

“Your clothes say otherwise,” Dorian countered, forcing her to stand still as he lifted the heavy material to reveal the flesh beneath.

He inspected the area as well as he could without making her strip, but he could find not a scratch. Like her neck, her skin was flawless. Relief filled him and yet the fact made no sense. Dorian took a deep breath but could detect only her humanity and burgeoning womanhood. And yet her blood, as well as the man’s she had stabbed, were unmistakable on her clothes. Could the rip be a result from a previous injury? Instinct said there was another explanation, but without her being a spawn, he could not fathom what it was.

Moirae swallowed and stepped back, unnerved by his closeness. “Kilnhurst is most unusual. Whoever designed it considered both defense and upkeep. Time can be destructive to castles, especially unused ones.”

Dorian felt his jaw grow hard. Was she toying with him? Had Aeolus found her and instructed her on things to say to gain his attention? It was possible, but he would swear her statement had been unrehearsed. And yet mortals thought about time in segments related to their own lifetime, not those that encompassed their descendants’. Whoever she was, Moirae was living up to her name.

Dorian threw her mantle over a chair and went to light the fire, realizing that she most likely found the room to be rather cold. After getting the flames to catch hold, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

Moirae shook her head and watched him remove a large curved sword from his belt and place it with its smaller mate. Though different lengths, each had an ivory handle carved with strange markings. Both were mesmerizing, compelling her to reach out and touch them. Unable to resist, she walked up to the first, but before her finger could feel the cool surface, Dorian grabbed her wrist from behind, halting her.

Realizing what she had just been about to do, she apologized. “I’ve just . . . well, I’ve never seen a sword like it before.”

Dorian let her go and stepped back. “And you probably never will again.”

Moirae exhaled and turned around abruptly, bumping into him. Damn. She had thought he had moved farther away. Normally, her sense of smell told her just how many people were in the room and where they were standing in relation to her. Unfortunately, the man in front of her was the one person with whom she truly needed the ability.

Dorian lifted his finger to move back a wayward piece of her hair and stroked her cheek. Moirae really was beautiful. Her delicately carved cheekbones held just a hint of rose in the dim reflection cast by the shadowy light. With a small nose and a soft pert mouth composed of a lower lip slightly fuller than the upper, her face was the model of feminine delicacy. And yet one only had to glance into her expressive eyes to know such fragility was a lie. The woman had strength, of will and spirit—a captivating and, therefore, dangerous combination.

His fingers trailed down her cheek to her neck, and he could feel the beat of her heart racing. He was not alone in his reaction to their close proximity. He may not be able to sense her emotions, but he could smell her response. Desire pumped through her pores.

Tilting her head up toward him, she looked directly into his gray eyes, peering at him intently. Slowly and seductively, Dorian let his gaze slide downward and witnessed the resulting shiver that went through her. The woman was a virgin. He had had many in his past, and some were pleasing, but most were so timid they failed to inspire. He suspected Moirae Deincourt would prove to be just as surprising in bed as she was out of it, but the possibility of a small, brief thrill was not enough to make him want to play with fire. And that was what Moirae was. Someone to be avoided.

Dorian stepped back and waved for her to sit down on one of the four padded chairs that were placed in a semicircle around the hearth.

Moirae went to the closest chair, irked by his cool, aloof manner mostly because she had been anything but composed. It was time to refocus. “I want you to stop being the Guardian,” she said directly.

Dorian’s scoff was soft but still painful. “An unwise request. Tonight was proof enough that you are unable to fulfill the role. Maybe it is you who should stop, lest next time I’m not nearby.”

Sudden anger lit her eyes. “I don’t fear death. And for nearly a year now, my bow has been more than enough.”

“Miraculously. I cannot believe anyone can shoot with your grip.”

“And yet I hit my targets,” she uttered through clenched teeth.

He laughed. “That you do.”

The acknowledgment should have made her feel better, but his laughter pricked her pride. “Then why should I change?” she challenged him.

“Because no one should aspire to do things incorrectly. None of the men who ever followed me into battle would have done so if I fought ridiculously, even if I was somehow successful.”

“It is not loyalty I crave—”

Moirae halted in midsentence and Dorian wondered what she had been about to admit. Just what did a woman like Moirae crave?

Before he could press her, she decided to put him on the defensive. “Besides you do not fool me. You profess to lead others, and yet it is clear, there is no one that follows you. You command the loyalty of what? Your two hounds and husband and wife staff ?”

His eyes narrowed. Moirae had only glimpsed one male servant, and he was positive that she had seen nothing of his dogs. She obviously knew much more than he realized. Time for playing was over. “It is time you left, Lady Destiny.”

She looked at him with mute defiance. If possible, her expression was even more stubborn than his own. “Not until you agree to leave Badenoch.”

“And if I refuse?”

“There is a danger of pushing me too far, my lord,” she warned.

Her emerald eyes were wide, brilliant, and slightly mocking. She was utterly intoxicating, standing right up to him, defying him, twisting her lips, making them all the more tempting. Dorian felt every muscle in his body tighten with hot, intense, primitive need.

He reached out to catch her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He turned her head so she was forced to meet his eyes. “Not laird. Not lord. Just Dorian,” he murmured.

He had intended to tell her to go home, but when Moirae sucked in a quivering breath, Dorian could hold back his curiosity no longer. Moving his hand to the back of her head, he took her mouth, kissing her with an inviting passion that caused her to shiver in his arms, but she did not pull away. Instead, her arms stole around his neck and her lips parted, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

That encouragement was all he needed, and Dorian plunged inside, tasting, teasing, kissing her mouth hungrily. Tentatively at first, then with growing urgency, she matched the intensity of his kisses, creating a hot tide of passion that rose rapidly between them.

When he paused to let go, she opened her eyes and met his. Her luminous dark green and gold pools blazed with desire, and he was hard with wanting her. He could still taste her on his tongue, hot and wet and woman sweet. It took all his concentration to control the most elemental of his male urges and not take her in his arms again and end things with more than just a kiss. He truly could not remember the last time he wanted a woman, any woman, as much as he desired her. It was almost enough to shatter his long-held ideas of immortals mixing with mortals.

Almost.

The kiss had been meant to establish she was a young inexperienced woman with nothing to tempt him. Unfortunately, it had proven quite the opposite. He was tempted, but she was dangerous. There was something different about her, and while it was undeniably appealing, she was also undeniably human. And he was not.

Leaning toward her, Dorian cradled her face in his strong hands and gently brushed his lips softly against hers. He then stepped back and pulled a cord, a clear sign that he was ending whatever had erupted between them. Moirae was not unsure that she wasn’t glad for the interruption. She had just been burgeoning into womanhood when her world had been turned upside down. Men, relationships, love . . . these were no longer options for her. Her life had a different purpose.

“Thank you for the kiss,” she whispered, and then willed her voice to strengthen. “But it changes nothing. Leave Badenoch.”

Dorian smiled. He liked her tenacity. She was new to desire and yet she refused to let it rule her. He wondered what it would be like with her if she ever genuinely let go. “I’ll leave when I am ready, my lady. And not before.”

Just then, a short dark-haired man appeared in the doorway. “Did you retrieve the lady’s horse?” Dorian asked. Upon the man’s nod, Moirae felt the large fingers of Dorian’s hand upon her back.

Sweeping up her cloak off the chair as he escorted her out the study door, Moirae went without argument, but not without a promise. “You will be seeing me again . . . Dorian. And on my terms.”

Somehow, Dorian didn’t doubt it. He was fairly certain Moirae had not a clue how she intended to make her vow a reality, but he was just as positive that she would come up with a plan.

And he was looking forward to discovering just what it might be.

Chapter Four

Moirae drummed her fingers on the very armchair she had been sitting on seven nights ago, just before she had been summarily escorted to the stables and to her horse. It had taken a week for Moirae to devise a scheme that would, in the end, suit her true needs. It was only last night that she realized her initial desire for Dorian to leave had been not only narrow-minded and improvident, but damn near foolish.

Rising, she went over to study the long sleek blade that was so unlike any weapon she had ever before seen. She fingered the empty frame that held its mate, reminding herself that an opportunity had presented itself and a wise person would seize the chance, despite the risks.

Enion had been the only one willing to train her on any type of weapon, and unfortunately, his expertise had been limited to that of archery—not the sword. The near deadly trap she had stumbled into the other night was proof that such skill limitations could not only be lethal for her, but for those she sought to protect. She needed to learn how to fight. But seeking that type of training from a Highlander was not only highly inadvisable for a woman with a bad leg, it would breed personal questions that she had to avoid—not attract.

But Dorian was a swordsman who also held secrets he wanted kept private. He also had a most unusual sword.

Moirae reached out and clasped the ivory-engraved handle, but before she could pick up the weapon, the study door opened. She knew without turning around that she was in serious and imminent danger.

Unfortunately, this time Dorian was not nearby to save her.

Dorian returned to Kilnhurst disgruntled. There had been no new attacks beyond normal clan rivalries since the night he had saved—or thought he had saved—Moirae. And yet the spawns tormenting the humans had not left the area. Whoever it was they were after, Ionas obviously did not want Dorian to find them first.

To break the stalemate, Dorian decided to covertly search the area himself for anyone matching the flimsy description of an old woman with two puncturelike scars on her neck. Because of its water access, Badenoch brought together the borders of many clans, and an abundance of clansmen. Finding a particular woman without divulging his presence not only made things more difficult, but significantly delayed his departure. Not enough years had passed to allow him to ease back into local Highland life. A few more decades. Maybe then he could return.

Dorian sauntered down the hall toward the study, glad he had satiated his hunger for blood earlier that night. A rare smile crept into his expression as he inhaled Moirae’s sweet unusual fragrance. He had found her horse hidden on the outskirts of Kilnhurst tied to a tree. The idea that she thought she could surprise him, pleased him. He had thought their kiss had scared her off, and he was markedly happy it had not. Nor had it changed her into a timid girl, suddenly shy after being introduced to the power of sexual desires.

Female laughter echoed down the hall and his smile vanished. Puzzled, Dorian hastened his pace only to come to an abrupt stop at the door. He had been mentally rehearsing a feisty encounter, with her impatiently waiting for his return so that she could once again demand his immediate departure. He even imagined the less likely, but still possible idea, of her eagerly waiting for him in hopes that he would introduce her to passions she had not yet fathomed. What he had not prepared himself for was the sight of Moirae on the floor playing with his two massive and supposedly deadly dogs.

He had carefully selected animals bred to be huge and ferocious, intentionally cultivating their naturally volatile traits so that only he could constrain them. And yet both giant hounds were acting as if they were friendly, sweet puppies, licking her and yipping as the three of them played keep-away with a large stick she must have pulled from the woodpile.

“Hello.” She giggled, detangling herself from his hounds and rising.

He arched an eyebrow, hoping that it hid his shock, and unhooked his cape to throw it over one of the chairs before cradling the katana in its holder.

“Dyavolsko. Erebes. Come,” he ordered and both dogs sauntered up to him in obedience. They sniffed and wagged their tails a couple of times before turning right around to lay down at Moirae’s feet. He could not read her, but he could read them. Both dogs loved her. And until now, neither had ever given their affection to anyone but him.

Forcing his jaw to relax, Dorian glanced at the bread and drink on the table and said, “I assume Holland offered you food and drink.” Moirae smiled mischievously and Dorian knew that she had charmed his manservant and no doubt his wife the same way she had the dogs.

With intentional flair, she sat down in the padded settee behind her. “He did. As you can see, I have already indulged myself while I waited for you.”

“Your presence was not expected, Lady Deincourt.”

“Really?” she asked with mock astonishment. “Based on my parting comment, I would have thought you to be surprised it took me so long to return.”

The truth of her statement rankled him. “Kilnhurst is not a place for visitors.”

Moirae sighed, unperturbed, and leaned back. “Then you should have made it much more difficult to breach your defenses.” Then, she made the same gesture he used to get in the castle when he carried her back to Kilnhurst thinking her injured.

Dorian narrowed his eyes. She was teasing him and enjoying it. And in a strange way, so was he. “Are you here to beg me once again to end my activities as the Guardian?”

Moirae smiled and shook her head. “Not at all. You obviously have your own reasons to steal my role.” Dorian could feel the corners of his mouth twitch at the blunt accusation. But her tone held no malice.

“Being the Guardian of Badenoch must serve some mysterious purpose for you,” she continued. “For no one of intelligence spends their nights doing something that provides nothing in return. My guess is that you are looking for whatever the attackers are. You are just going about it in a less destructive, and much less noticeable manner.”

Dorian reclamped his jaw. Again, Moirae Deincourt was proving to possess an understanding of the world—and him—that was astonishingly accurate and uncomfortably unexpected. Plus, he still could not fathom her own desire to continue playing the hero when the level of danger associated with the role had significantly risen in recent weeks. Was it adrenaline? Some humans were addicted to danger, but Dorian was certain simple excitement was not Moirae’s motivation. She was right that he desired the role of Guardian for personal reasons, but so did she. And those reasons had driven her to once again come to Kilnhurst and confront him. That, and the sexual desire he could smell coursing through her being.

It had been a long time since Dorian had met someone who had interested him enough to make him want to seek out physical relations. For the past several centuries, he had restricted his mating to female spawns just to eliminate the possibility of emotional attachment often associated with humans. But too often, spawns gained a sadistic quality fairly soon after conversion that came from the sudden misperception of invincibility. After enough flat encounters, Dorian had concluded that bad sex was not necessarily better than no sex. And based on the kiss he and Moirae had shared, he suspected that the act would be far more enjoyable than in recent memory.

The idea of taking her right then was tempting. Very tempting. But her name . . . Moirae. To fool with one’s destiny was dangerous. That, and she was human.

“Then just why are you here?” he finally asked.

Moirae uncrossed her legs and stood up to look him directly in the eye. “I want you to teach me how to fight using a sword. More specifically, one of those,” she said, pointing at the long elegant blades.

Dorian stood frozen for a second. Of all the requests he had expected her to make, that one had not occurred to him. “No. Absolutely not,” he blurted out without thought.

“Why? Is it because I am a woman?” she challenged him, rejecting the finality in his voice.

No, because you are tempting me, he answered privately. “Because of other reasons,” he countered aloud.

“Such as?” she asked, taking a step closer to him, clearly not intimidated by the difference in their sizes.

“Your limp for one.”

A tremor touched her soft, pink lips, and he wanted so badly to kiss her he stopped thinking of anything else. With lightning speed, Moirae spun around, and in a single smooth movement, she seized one of the swords and sliced it through the air with incredible speed. Instinctively, Dorian twisted on his left foot and arched his back to avoid her attack. By the shocked look in her eye, he knew that while Moirae had exceptional agility, she lacked the control attained through training and practice. Her intent had not been to harm him, but to prove she had potential.

After the blade passed over him, Dorian pivoted to grasp the remaining katana. Yanking it free of its frame, he clashed the blade against hers, believing the force of the impact would easily disarm her. Her size and gender belied her strength, reminding him once again that Moirae Deincourt was significantly more than she appeared. Deciding to use skill, not strength, he rotated the tip of the katana for distraction, before flicking her sword upward, forcing Moirae to release her grip and give him control over both weapons.

“How did you do that?” she exclaimed with a twinge of envy.

His gray eyes fastened on her green ones, and Dorian could feel himself being drawn deeper and deeper into a place he desired to explore. Grimacing, he cut the connection and deftly twirled the instruments in his palms before placing them back safely where they belonged. “It was a simple maneuver anyone with even limited knowledge of a sword could perform.”

“If anyone could do it, then teach me,” she responded sharply, abandoning all pretense.

Her sincerity amused him. “Why?”

“My aim is lethal at a distance, but to be the Guardian, I need to be able to better protect myself in a fight. I cannot ask anyone else to train me without questions.”

Dorian frowned. “That’s not what I meant. Why do you need to be the Guardian? Why unnecessarily put yourself in danger?”

Moirae crossed her arms and overtly studied him. She considered telling him a partial truth—that she wanted to protect people—but suspected half answers would not persuade him to her cause. “Because I seek the man who killed my family, and when I meet him, I intend to kill him, and a well-placed arrow may or may not be the weapon I need to achieve that goal.”

“Just whom do you seek?” Dorian asked, his voice drifting into a hushed whisper.

“Does it matter?”

He blinked. She was right. It really mattered not why she wanted to be taught, whom she wanted to avenge, or even why she sought revenge. He wasn’t going to teach her. “My answer is still no,” Dorian repeated, but the resolve his voice had previously evoked was missing.

“Then I will let it be known who the Guardian is, spread the word about Kilnhurst’s new tenant, and I may even let it slip about these lovely unique weapons of yours. People may not believe me, but many will come to this place just to prove me wrong, making it much harder for you to achieve your goals.”

Dorian almost laughed aloud. So that was her strategy. He knew Moirae had come with one. She had been acting too confident since his arrival. But if he agreed to her demand now, she would believe she had won. Then again, training Moirae had several distinct advantages. Distraction was one, and discovery of just whom she was after was another. But mostly, it gave him the perfect opportunity to seduce her . . . and he hoped it would not be easy.

“I’ve changed my mind. I will teach you, but only on my terms.”

“Agreed.”

“We meet only at night.” Again, Moirae bobbed her head.

Dorian caught the relief in her expression and he wondered if the reason she had agreed to come when it was dark was a fear of being caught. If so, by whom? Deciding that he could answer those particular questions another time, he continued. “You follow my instructions without argument.” Her eyes narrowed, and before she could refuse, he stated his final condition. “And last, you must promise to end any attempts to be the Guardian until I say you are ready.”

Alarm flashed in her eyes, but immediately she suppressed it. He had expected some resistance on that point, but with pursed lips, Moirae gave a single nod.

Dorian crossed the distance between them, wondering if she would step away. When she didn’t, he had to shift his stance as he felt himself begin to harden. Moirae had the power to inspire his lust, and he no longer was pretending that he didn’t intend to discover if she could satisfy it as well.

“And one more thing—” he whispered, his voice deep and husky with desire. He reached up and lightly fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. Moirae swallowed and he could feel her heartbeat quicken, but her eyes never left his. She was daring him to continue, so he did, tracing his index finger down her throat, over her shoulder, then along her partially exposed bust line. “Know this, Lady Destiny, I agreed to train you because I intend to seduce you.”

Moirae gazed into his turbulent, storm-colored eyes. Every nerve ending in her body was responding to the unspoken message in the dark look, and only through sheer will was she able to force herself to glance down. With her right hand, she plucked his finger from her chest and then flicked it away as if she were removing an insect from her personage. “Seduction implies a willingness on my part, does it not?”

Dorian quirked a single eyebrow questioningly. “Indeed it does.”

She was doing an excellent job of appearing to be unmoved by the unmistakable sexual tension between them, but he could smell her body’s response. She absolutely wanted him just as much as he desired her.

Stepping back, Moirae flashed him a brilliant smile and reached down to gather her things lying on the settee. Donning her mantle, she said, “Excellent. Then you shall have a long wait, for I have no intention of being seduced. By you or any other man.”

Then she was gone. And it was several seconds before Dorian realized he was still grinning. Intrigued no longer sufficed to explain what he felt for her. Fascination filled his every pore, and he felt more alive than he had in centuries.

He was embarking on a simple game of pursuit. But for the first time in a very long while, he was eager to play.

Moirae shifted uncomfortably, checked her stance to ensure her feet were shoulder width apart, and then looked out over the battlements to the target below. Lifting the bow, she nocked the arrow, and then curled her fingers around the bowstring so that all her joints were aligned and began to pull.

“Thumb,” came the soft reminder from behind.

Moirae fought the instinct to ram her elbow into his rib cage. “I know!” she grumbled and tucked her wayward thumb into her palm.

“You must use a consistent hand position.”

Moirae squeezed her eyes shut. Relearning a skill she had thought she had mastered was not the type of lesson she had been seeking. But Dorian had been insistent. And after that first humiliating night of training, she had no choice but to agree to his terms and improve her archery abilities before training on the sword. Her only source of solace was that her skill really was improving, and thankfully rapidly. She now could shoot long distances, even when the target was moving—neither of which she could have hoped to do beforehand.

“My grip was exceptionally reliable until you forced me to change it,” she muttered as she struggled to draw the arrow back.

He lightly placed his hand on her shoulder. “Do not allow your shoulder to rotate up or it will shorten the draw length—”

“—and, therefore, the distance and power of my shot,” Moirae gritted out, mimicking him as she released her grip.

Dorian watched the arrow slice through the night sky, piercing a distant small rabbit that had been munching on some food it had found. He grimaced. Moirae had hit the target and she shouldn’t have. He had given her his bow, which was strung significantly tighter than the average aerial weapon, enabling the force of his bolts to travel much faster and much farther. A bow’s draw length depended on the strength of the archer, and few men could exert the force she had just demonstrated. Somehow the taut strings of his bow must have slackened.

Taking his weapon from her, he returned her own. “Practice,” he ordered, examining the strings on his longbow. They seemed unyielding, but they were obviously not firm enough.

“For how long?” Moirae asked.

“Until you no longer have to think about shooting it correctly,” Dorian answered, ignoring her exaggerated sigh meant for him. But he knew that if Moirae were really as riled as she pretended, she wouldn’t be there night after night, following his counsel.

Dorian went to his bedchambers and took apart the bow and began to reconstruct the weapon. He was not a skilled artillator but he had learned the art of stringing a longbow years ago. He examined the glue-soaked hemp and decided it still seemed strong, then slowly began twisting the fiber one way and then back again until the weapon was restrung. He plucked it and the inflexible string barely moved under the semi-light pressure. Satisfied, Dorian sat back and decided to check on Moirae’s status.

Upon exiting his chambers, he realized that restringing the bow had taken him much longer than he had realized. Sunrise was imminent, and yet he could still smell her presence. Believing her to still be practicing, he headed down the hallway toward the tower staircase and almost missed seeing her asleep on the settee in his study.

He retrieved a blanket from his room and gently placed it over her, studying her as she slept. Moirae had been coming to his home for nearly a week and he had not once touched her. Surprisingly, the effort to keep from doing so had been quite difficult. Moirae was a remarkable beauty for one so young, but it was not just her appearance that appealed to him. Her irreverent wit coupled with unexpected remarks about life kept him curious. Too many times he had needed to fight the urge to kiss her, and seeing her asleep on his couch the feeling was even stronger.

Pivoting, Dorian headed to his room to go to bed. He knew, however, that sleep would not find him quickly, and by the time he did awake, she would be gone . . . or at least he hoped she would be.

Moirae kicked off her slippers, leaned back against the settee’s padded cushions, and contemplated her not-so-perfect plan. It was unusual to find so many comfortable furnishings in a single castle. The cost and upkeep of such items made it prohibitive. And yet Dorian—who lived alone, with the exception of his two servants, a husband and wife who rarely came into view—had nearly three times the furniture as the typical Highland laird of a sizeable clan. This she had confirmed earlier that evening when she had sneaked off to explore the castle when Dorian had vanished once again to play her role as the Guardian. She had hoped to discover a hint about the man, who he was and from where he came, but unfortunately, she found only more questions.

For the past two weeks, she had come to Kilnhurst soon after sunset to receive instruction. After a few hours, Dorian would leave the grounds to go out on patrol while she continued training until exhaustion took over. Then, she would retire to the study, intending to stay conscious until his return, only to fall asleep before he did so. She would awaken to find a blanket draped over her or a pillow under her head, proving he had been there. But tonight, she had stopped practicing soon after his departure.

Though she had initially resisted training on a weapon she thought she could already effectively use, Moirae knew her skills as an archer had dramatically improved in the past fortnight. She could always hit a target reliably at a distance, but now she could aim and draw faster and, most importantly, do so even if the target was small, in the shadows, or moving. But while the improvement would no doubt be an advantage to achieving her goals, mastering archery was not the reason she was there or the reason she had agreed to temporarily stop playing the role of the Guardian.

Learning the sword was her goal.

Moirae drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh as she flipped onto her side. Once again, she pondered the question that had been plaguing her for nearly a week. Both she and Dorian had been up front in what they hoped to achieve during these training sessions. She wanted to become skilled in close combat; he sought to seduce her. And yet, not once had Dorian tried to kiss her. He even avoided touching her, doing so only when absolutely necessary, and even then, briefly. Moirae hated to admit it, but she was disappointed.

Though positive she could fend off an advance, she had been looking forward to getting the chance to do so. The kiss they had shared was far from the first kiss she had ever had . . . but in an odd way, it was. Never had an embrace affected her or plagued her thoughts like the single kiss she and Dorian had shared. In mere moments, desire had spiraled out of control, sending tendrils of fire into every nerve of her body.

During their lessons, she caught herself wanting to lean back into him until his lips were touching the skin of her throat. She imagined her mouth kissing his rough-hewn cheek and how it would feel to nestle her head on his shoulder. What she really wanted, she thought wryly, was to feel Dorian’s arms around her and rediscover the smoldering passion that had lain dormant within her.

And if a first kiss could cause such stirrings and create lasting memories, Moirae suspected Dorian could make her feel much more. The idea was both very appealing and carried low risk. A kiss, even a very passionate one, was something from which she could easily walk away. Physical pleasure only. For no matter what transpired between them, she was not going to become emotionally entangled.

Dorian would never understand her need to be the Guardian. No man would.

She accepted long ago that her life was to be one lived in solitude. But that kiss . . . until then she had not realized her life also was one without passion.

Dorian crossed the threshold of the study and eyed the sleeping figure on the settee just as he did every night. Her right palm faced upward, allowing her relaxed fingers to curl and expose the red, inflamed calluses that were forming. The woman was an enigma. Humans just did not endure pain voluntarily. So why was she?

If he were to ask her while conscious, Dorian knew her answer would be—to become the Guardian. But just why Moirae felt it necessary to protect the local lands remained a mystery—one that had stalled his plans for seduction.

When he had made her that promise, he had planned to conduct the lessons with indifference, with absolutely no hint of interest in her physically. Knowing the idea he had planted and the way she had responded in his arms, Dorian had expected her to become anxious and possibly even try to tempt him. What he had not expected was to enjoy her stubbornness, feisty personality, and most of all, her sheer company. Moirae saw the world as no human did. As a result, he was not tiring of her as quickly as he would have expected. And several millennia of experience had proven that after the seduction, whatever thrill he was experiencing now would quickly turn to boredom. And he wasn’t ready to end things with Moirae.

He had met, been with, and enjoyed many women over the years, of all types and personalities. As a result, he could go nowhere, meet no one, that he could not understand and, therefore, predict rather quickly . . . until Moirae. She, he could not read. Her unusual perspective was like a drug beckoning him. A trait he suspected repelled the males of her kind. Humans feared anyone unique. But for someone who had lived for centuries, meeting someone atypical had great appeal.

Moirae alleviated his boredom. She gave him something to look forward to and helped speed the monotony of time, but her charm had become something more than sheer stimulation. None of those reasons explained his desire to see her smile and be the reason behind it, to hear her laugh, and most of all, to touch her skin. Something, he had forced himself to avoid.

Her pale skin was the tone of Greek Parian marble, giving her delicate features a refined beauty. Slender and tall, she appeared to the casual observer a gentle creature, but one only had to glimpse into her green eyes to see the fires of passion flash within. And though she tried to hide her feelings, he knew she desired him. Her longing mixed with his own, Dorian knew that when he did succumb to his need to touch her, it would not be the slow seduction he had promised, but an explosion that would either consume them or leave them panting for more. And based on what he had learned earlier that night, they would soon know which.

Once Moirae heard the attacks had resumed, she would be eager to place herself in danger once again. For her to survive, she would have to know how to fight not just from afar, but up close.

Tomorrow evening her lessons would begin in earnest. No longer would he be instructing dispassionately at a distance. Combat was physical and close. Whether Moirae was ready or not, she was going to learn not just how to wield a blade, but what it was like to be truly and uncontrollably seduced.

Chapter Five

Moirae slipped off her mount and wrapped the reins loosely around one of the stable posts. She never saw Holland in the vicinity of the stables, yet whenever she was ready to leave, her horse had been brushed and fed. The couple that supported Dorian was quiet, unobtrusive, and eerily intuitive, but where they came from and why they were there was a mystery. And like many other puzzles connected to Kilnhurst, Moirae suspected this one would remain unsolved when she and Dorian parted ways.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and headed toward the tower entrance. Moirae wished she could march indomitably down the hall and into the study to make her demands. The reminder that she couldn’t made her pause for a brief moment and reconsider her plan. The broken bones in her right leg had mended in such a way that quick movements were impossible. As a result, the most difficult part of learning to wield a sword would not be figuring out how and when to defend or attack, but compensating for the lack of quick footwork. But just as she found a way to walk, ride, and even climb steps, Moirae vowed she would grasp the basics on how to wield a blade.

Shoving open the doors, Moirae stepped through the study entrance with more grandeur than she had intended, but it did get Dorian’s attention. She watched his piercing gray eyes sweep over her, taking her in from head to toe in one swift, heated glance, and she suddenly doubted her choice of attire.

Instead of the normal floor-length gown she had been wearing, she had dressed in a boy’s chemise and tunic that only reached her knees, exposing her hosed legs. She had chosen the outfit with only ease of mobility in mind, and yet the desire of Dorian’s gaze was unmistakable. It scorched through her, igniting sensations and latent passions she thought had died years ago. Then, just as suddenly, Dorian’s smoldering eyes went blank as he released his stare, as if he, too, had felt the searing heat.

He arched a single dark brow and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “I assume by your choice of clothes that you aim to end your lessons with the bow and begin them with the sword.”

Moirae cocked her head slightly in acknowledgment. She had intentionally worn gowns since her training had started. A kirtle did not interfere with aiming and releasing an arrow and she knew they were flattering on her. Despite her wish that she were completely indifferent to his promise to seduce her, deep down Moirae wanted Dorian to at least try. But tonight was the first time he had shown any interest in her. And the fact that she was dressed as a boy—well, rankled.

At first, she had believed his indifference to be a ruse in order to compel her to make the overtures he had so candidly promised. Not a common ploy, but one she recognized. As a result, she had done the opposite, purposefully not doing or saying a single thing to make him think she thought of him anything beyond that of a mentor. But she had. More than that, she had been keen to discover just what other methods he would employ to get her to succumb to his charm. But Dorian failed to try even one. She had concluded that either he had lied in an attempt to rattle her nerves or that after being around her, simply had changed his mind. For if he truly had meant to seduce her, by now he should have tried something.

While Moirae had little experience taking advantage of someone flirting with her, she easily recognized it when it happened . . . and Dorian had definitely not been flirting the past few weeks. He acted more like an older brother . . . or cousin . . . or a friend of a cousin that had been warned not to say or do anything untoward. She was considering ways to test his resolve and see if he was as truly disinterested as he seemed when word arrived that the attacks had resumed last night. That changed everything. Old priorities ranked once again of the highest importance.

“I would like you to start training me on the sword. Tonight,” Moirae said pointedly, half hoping he would argue, for she was ready to challenge any objection.

“Turn around,” Dorian instructed.

Moirae furrowed her brow, but after a few seconds, she did as directed. Through the open study door, she could see across the hall. Not more than five minutes ago, the double doors had been closed as they had always been. Now open, she could see partially inside. More than likely, it had been originally designed to be a receiving room, but based on the variety of weapons in view, the somewhat narrow space had been converted to an interior training area.

Dorian had already decided to begin teaching her the sword.

“Why the grimace?” Dorian asked, still sitting. “Does this not comply with your request?”

Moirae bit her bottom lip in an attempt to hide her emotions. She hadn’t planned to request anything. She had been ready—maybe even eager—to demand he begin training her on the sword. But what really riled her was his aggravating ability to anticipate her intentions, almost as if he were a mind reader.

Dorian rose to his feet and walked over to the two unusual swords. He lifted the first one out of its frame and unsheathed it from its scabbard, studying its beauty. Moirae waited for him to remove the second sword, but he left it alone and breezed by her into the hall, pausing only after he reached the training room door. “If you are ready, let’s begin. There is much you have to learn.”

Moirae twisted her lips and nodded, a secret smile forming inside her. Dorian believed himself to be in control and that he could dictate the conditions of her lessons as he had the bow. However, his arrogance revealed something very interesting. Moirae wasn’t the only one who wanted her to have the lessons; he did as well.

Why, Moirae could not fathom, but it did not matter. That knowledge gave her leverage—albeit very small—but enough for her to get back what she desired most in the world. The role of the Guardian.

Moirae watched as Dorian spun the long thin katana in his palm. Her stomach fluttered, and she drew an unsteady breath, inhaling his scent of self-satisfaction. His rich black hair hung loose, barely touching his shoulder. She clenched her hands together tightly, resisting the impulse to reach out and feel the silky tresses run through her fingers.

His attire was like that of every other evening, minus the cloak. He wore a simple leine, open at the throat, revealing the wide chiseled planes of his chest. His dark belted plaid belonged to no Scottish clan she knew of, but yet the wool tartan still looked appropriate on his figure, emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. He may not have been born a Highlander, but he looked like one. Unfortunately, a very good-looking one.

“Walk toward me,” Dorian ordered.

Moirae’s green eyes narrowed in reflexive defiance, but she didn’t argue. She took a regular step with her left foot and then a quick one with her right, minimizing the weight and the time the leg had to support her. It wasn’t exactly a shuffle, but being in men’s clothing, her fettered walk could not be disguised. Over the years, she had learned to keep her body erect, skillfully using her gown to misdirect attention and hide her awkward movements.

“Your leg—” Dorian began.

“It was crushed when I was seventeen by a falling beam.”

Dorian sent her an exasperated look and finished his original question. “Your leg, does it hurt when you move?”

“No,” Moirae answered truthfully.

“Then why don’t you put weight on it and walk normally ?” Dorian knelt down and began to knead the muscles in her right leg.

Moirae swallowed and tried to fight the tears of humiliation that were forming. His touch was not erotic, but indifferent, as he fingered the fragmented bones. By the time she had been found and freed from the broken beam that had fallen on her, her leg had already begun to mend, but not correctly. How could she explain that the thigh bones one takes for granted now felt wrong, and that each time she took a step, her body screamed not in pain, but with warning that her leg would not hold.

Dorian stood and his smoky gray eyes drove into her. “The bones are misaligned, but they are connected and should provide ample support. So, our first lesson will be how to walk.”

Moirae’s jaw slackened in dismay. “You do not understand—”

“Some think strength and the ability to block an attack is the secret to sword fighting, but victory lies with proper physical balance—which starts with your feet. One must be fluid and graceful—”

“I will never be either.”

“Then you shall not be trained how to fight, by me or by anyone.”

“Then I shall teach myself,” Moirae declared, thrusting her chin into the air.

Dorian, sensing Moirae was not issuing a threat but a promise, sighed with frustration. The woman was going to put herself in danger, and unless she could defend herself, she would soon be dead. And why he cared, he could not comprehend. “It is by choice, not fate, that you limp. Your leg has the strength; it is your will that is weak.”

Moirae fumed. After weeks of training, withstanding fatigue, soreness, and the agony of repeated abuse to her hands, he had the audacity to claim she was weak? “I believe you know me to be otherwise,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“Aye, at least until a few minutes ago, when I learned that you would rather hobble than walk. For you could walk, if you chose to.”

Moirae inhaled, her fury still swirled within, but the man actually believed what he said. Could he be correct? “Prove it,” she said, knowing he could not.

Dorian waved his arm. “Walk across the room.”

Moirae did as commanded, but before she could take a step with her right foot, Dorian kneeled in front of her and twisted her ankle so that the foot jutted out at a disturbing angle, and not forward. He put it down and motioned for her to put her weight on it and take another step. She looked down and the sight of one foot properly facing the direction she was headed and the other like it had been broken off and poorly reattached was revolting. Instinctively, she turned her right foot back forward. Her hip, now out of alignment, forced Moirae to hop and as quickly as possible shift her weight back to her left foot.

Dorian twisted her ankle again to the unsightly angle. “This time do it my way.”

“I cannot walk in two directions at the same time!” she almost yelled, showing him her meaning by repeatedly bending her right foot from heel to toe. Each step she took would alter her body’s direction.

Dorian quirked a brow, seeing her point. “Then don’t. Instead of walking from your heel, roll your balance from one side of your foot to the other so that it is in the direction you want to go.”

Moirae tightened her grip on her crossed arms as memories crashed into her so vibrant it was like they had happened just moments ago. “Did you think I never tried this?” she questioned, remembering people’s laughter. A pretty woman who hobbled was pitied, but no woman was pretty enough to escape scorn when she fell down, which is what happened each time Moirae had attempted to walk the way Dorian was instructing. To prove her point, she took a step on the side of her foot and it promptly slid out from underneath her. Moirae threw out her hands to soften the fall, but there was no need. Dorian had caught her and immediately stood her upright once again.

“Stop being afraid,” he grumbled and reached down to adjust her ankle once more.

Moirae was tempted to strangle him. “How you construe fear from what—” She stopped in midsentence as Dorian began marching in an exaggerated slow fashion around the room. “You won’t make me feel better by appearing more ridiculous than I.”

“When a person walks, they shift their weight completely to the foot that is on the ground,” he said, ignoring her comments and surly attitude, demonstrating in slow motion what he meant.

Moirae had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing. It was hard to reconcile this tall, lumbering version of him with the one who was always poised and in control. Then Dorian suddenly changed his gait so that it imitated hers. He rotated his foot out and took a step forward, but he didn’t commit to the effort and kept the majority of his weight on his left foot. It was exactly what just happened when she had tried the same thing. He was trying to move forward with his left foot and since the right was not positioned for him to shift his weight, Dorian stumbled, something Moirae doubted she would ever see again. Then he repeated the maneuver, this time fully committing to his right leg, and while it did look awkward and far from elegant, he kept his balance.

He stopped and stared at her, defying her to challenge his point. Squaring her jaw, Moirae stepped forward with her right leg as if she fully entrusted it to support her . . . and it did. Without thought, she tried it again and again. Each time she was able to maintain her balance and move substantially quicker, looking no doubt extremely odd, but far less clumsy. It would take practice, but given enough time and a gown to hide the odd way her leg was turned, people might actually think her graceful. A term she thought would never be applied to her.

Standing tall and wearing his arrogant smirk once again, Dorian said, “For your second lesson, you shall learn how to dance.”

Moirae came to an abrupt halt and stared at him, unable to prevent her jaw from slackening until her mouth was completely wide open in shock.

Dorian watched from the battlements as Moirae rode into the bailey at a full gallop, slowing just before she reached the stables. In one effortless move, she slipped off her mount and then escorted the animal inside. Less than a minute later she reappeared, and directly underneath the light of a scone, she removed her hooded mantle, hooking it over her arm. Immediately he felt his throat tighten.

Instead of the hose and short kirtle that revealed her shapely legs and played havoc with his desires, she had donned a dark blue corset. The fitted fur-lined winter gown laced in front and hid much of the floor-length kirtle beneath, but it did not hide the elegant train, or the long fitted sleeves that reached her knuckles. But what held him spellbound was her hair. For the first time, her tawny locks were not captured in a snood or hidden within braids, but long and flowing. His blood roared in his ears as it raced like liquid fire through his body. God, why had he ever agreed to this?

Just before Dorian moved to go down the stairway and meet her in the study, Moirae turned and looked up so that her gaze was fixed upon him. He was standing in the shadows and out of sight, but nevertheless, she knew he was there. Once again, he was reminded that there was much more to Moirae Deincourt than appeared.

The woman had uncommon reflexes, made only faster since she had learned to properly compensate for her bad leg. Her lithe, feminine frame belied her true strength, for the broadsword he gave her to practice with should have been almost too heavy for her to lift, let alone wield like she did. But it was not just Moirae’s physical abilities that mystified him, but her mind.

She had picked up the basics of swordplay within the first week, and often times he found himself having to resort to more and more complex attack sequences that should have had her flustered and frustrated. Instead, she would summarily decipher them and then attempt to execute them herself. Soon, there would be nothing left he could teach her beyond that of practice so that combat became a natural response and not a conscious one. He had completed one of the two things he had sought to do. Moirae would now most likely live if attacked, something that would undoubtedly happen if she returned to her role as the Guardian.

Releasing him from her stare, Moirae turned and glided across the bailey with regal certainty, her gown masking the unusual gait. Moirae’s beauty was now complete. She exuded all the qualities men coveted. She was delicate but strong, enjoyed a vivacious spirit that was tempered with self-control, and possessed a mixture of youthful features and shrewd green eyes that sparkled with a lifetime’s experience. Moirae Deincourt was a mystery beckoning him, and he no longer had the will to prolong his agony.

Tonight he would end the anticipation. He would claim her and then prepare to leave Scotland. Ionas be damned. He had been here nearly two months, and for the past handful of weeks he had been focused on Moirae, not his nephew’s plots against some old woman. And in truth, it no longer mattered. Tomorrow, he would seek distance between him and Kilnhurst and he would not return until after Moirae’s death and her bones had become dust in the ground.

Dorian pivoted and hurried toward his study, wondering how he was going to refuse when Moirae begged him not to leave her.

Chapter Six

Dorian stepped behind his desk just in time before Moirae sashayed into the study. “You’re late,” he said, with feigned boredom.

Moirae tilted her head and a secretive smile softened her lips. “I know and I apologize. My cousin believes in enjoying his role as laird with numerous celebrations. I think he believes it engenders those of his clan to like him when, in truth, they have no more affinity for him than I.”

“Then why do you stay with him?”

Moirae shrugged her shoulders. “Like everyone else, I take advantage of his hospitality. The only price I must pay is to make an appearance at his parties. I avoided the past two festivities, but he refuses to excuse me from another. So I shall be late every Saturday night forthwith,” she finished with a sigh, tossing her cloak over one of the chairs.

Dorian studied Moirae. Her expression and demeanor had changed. Focused determination had been replaced with gaiety and a touch of whimsy. “Have you been drinking?” he asked as the possible reason just occurred to him.

She nodded and bestowed upon him a radiant smile. “I have. And dancing. For the first time I actually joined that pompous group. You should have seen the shocked, jealous looks of the gossips. I doubt I will be asked to sit with them again.”

“I see. I’m surprised you made it here at all,” Dorian muttered under his breath, as unfamiliar and possessive emotions swirled within his veins.

“Me, too! I thought I would never be released to leave. I was dancing so much that my snood fell off. But don’t worry, I brought it so my hair won’t interfere with practice,” she said, dangling the jeweled net that was in her palm.

Dorian stared at the waves of her chestnut locks daring his fingertips to touch its silky strands. Later, he promised himself. “I’m less worried about your hair than your dress.”

Moirae’s eyes opened wide and then sparkled with laughter. A fission of anger ripped through Dorian. Until now, he had never seen her this lighthearted. He had always known she would be irresistible with a buoyant spirit, but he had planned to be the reason behind the sheer happiness beaming from her face.

“I’ll just take this off.” She giggled and started unbuttoning the dark blue corset to reveal the off-the-shoulder particolored kirtle beneath.

The dress was made of two patterns of brocade. One half was of sky blue patterned with small fleur-de-lis and the other was of rich navy velvet. The sleeves were long and tight fitting, each matching their half of the dress. The expensive, modern ensemble was breathtaking on her and further proof that she was not a mere cousin to a laird from a small, unimportant clan.

To fight in a dress was foolish, but Dorian needed the activity to calm the desire raging through him. Otherwise it would not be a seduction but an uninspired taking of the flesh he would be performing. “Maybe it is well you wore a gown,” he stated coolly. “You might not always be suitably dressed when you meet your foe.”

Moirae’s eyes sprang open with surprise, but she did not argue and followed him across the hall to the training room. She unsheathed the broadsword from its scabbard and turned toward him, her soft and jovial features now hard and resolute.

Not waiting until he was ready, she bounded forward aiming down to make him think she was going to strike in one area while attacking another. Dorian quickly righted his katana and deflected the tip before it could glance upon his shoulder. “Eager, are you?”

Moirae shook her head, oblivious to her long mane flying about her. “I am merely at a disadvantage in this garment and intend to use all means available to distract you.”

Dorian circled the tip of her defending blade, but no longer did it disorient her or make her loosen her grip. “Remember, an enemy will use more than just his weaponry skills to gain an edge.”

“I’m ready,” she replied and Dorian decided it was time to remind her just who was the master.

He lunged, striking his katana across the weak inside line of her blade and drove his sword straight downward in an attempt to snap her wrist and disarm her. But her grip held, once again proving that her true strength remained unknown to him. Then, with implausible speed, she took her blade and landed it along his own. The threatening pressure was so unexpected and the force of the impact was so significant, it almost worked.

Determined not to underestimate her inhuman strength again, he extended his arm to its full length, using his height and size to prevent her from returning the thrust. Then he moved the tip of his blade around her bell guard in a tight circle, trapping her blade before swinging it away.

“Damn,” Moirae cursed in English.

Before she could retake her weapon, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him. The joyful fire that had been shining in her eyes was now an inferno. “The Highlands are not your home and whoever your ‘cousin’ is, he is not your family.”

“I am no more a Highlander than you are,” Moirae spat back, wrenching free to retake her sword. This time she stood still, eyeing him, letting him take the initiative.

That evening she had come to Kilnhurst happier than she had been since childhood. She had renewed hope and confidence in herself as a woman. The men at the party had flocked to her, and the women, who had once pitied her, could only look on with envy. There had not been a man present she couldn’t have conquered, but Moirae had not wanted any of them. Ignorant and self-serving, they thought about nothing except their next meal and their perpetually aroused loins. She wanted someone who made her heart race and her body ache with need.

Tonight, there was to be no training, no fighting, no swords. Just Dorian and his promise. Only he had failed to understand what she was offering.

Only a fool could have mistaken what she wanted with her dress and her hair. She had pasted on her most enticing smile, which she knew from experience could warm even the coldest of hearts, and yet Dorian had been unaffected. He was not a man. He was something cold, hard, and without passion or physical desires.

Unwilling to wait any longer for him to make a move, Moirae lunged. “You may look like the giants that live in these mountains, even talk like them, but you are certainly not one of them,” she huffed. “The only Gaelic thing about you is your name—Doireann, which you mispronounce, making me doubt it is even your real name.”

Dorian stepped back from shock. The accidental accuracy of Moirae’s comment struck Dorian off guard. He studied the dissipating rise and fall of her chest, trying to decide what he should or should not reveal about himself. Since he first came to these mountains, no one had ever guessed he was not a Highlander. His physique, fighting skills, and ability to speak flawless Gaelic were too much evidence otherwise. But he had not fooled Moirae any more than she had him.

Moving quickly to the right, he swung his blade in an arc until it connected with hers underneath, but again she held on. “You are correct. My birth name is actually Dorus,” he answered, twisting around to try the same move but in the other direction. “I later changed it to Dorian, thinking it more fitting to who I am now.”

Moirae reacted quickly to his change in strategy and aimed her broadsword upward, deflecting the force of his katana’s impact. “If one lived long enough, I could see the desire to change their name,” she mused through gritted teeth, “but you are not yet of an age to be tired of anything. Losing interest in a place or a type of food or even another person is commonplace enough, but it takes years to become bored of one’s name.”

Dorian blinked. He knew Moirae was not as young as she looked, but he’d seen enough women to know she could be no more than a handful of years past the age of twenty. And yet her understanding of people was far greater than that of a spawn who had lived an extended life.

Moirae spun around, and the frustration that once had filled her was being slowly replaced with another emotion—the enjoyment of an honest challenge. “Where are you really from?”

“Greece,” Dorian answered truthfully, relieved to see by her expression that she had never heard of his home. “It is a mountainous land that at its end breaks into islands, which spread out into three seas.” Spinning on his left foot, he swung his tip toward her weak side. She had not been prepared for the unorthodox move, but her reflexes enabled her to avert his attack. “And where are you from, Lady Destiny ?”

“I’m unsure,” Moirae answered, matching his movements so that they were slowly going around in a circle, waiting for the other to make their move. “My mother and grandmother moved around a lot when I was young.”

“And your father?”

“Died when I was an infant. Supposedly the sea took him,” Moirae said acerbically, moving just in time to avoid his downward thrust.

“You sound doubtful.”

Moirae regretted letting him hear her sarcasm. How could she explain that she did not know who she was. That one night, her life, both past and future, changed in an instant as her grandmother whispered her last words.

Moirae changed the topic to one she hoped would be just as unsettling. “Have you ever been in love?”

Dorian stood upright in surprise. Taking advantage of the mistake, Moirae lunged with more deftness and speed than he thought possible given the heavy garment she was wearing. He darted to the left, barely missing the point of her sword, which was not nearly as sharp as the katana, but dangerous nonetheless. It would take several dedicated years before Moirae would have the skill set to match his own, even at her accelerated learning rate, but the woman was clever, and her size falsely represented her strength. He would have to pay more attention.

He gave a quick bob with his chin, acknowledging the cunning maneuver, and then resumed a defensive position. “Many times, my lady. Have you?”

Moirae smiled enigmatically. “Once.”

“You are too young to have ever been truly in love,” Dorian replied, rejecting the idea that her heart already belonged to someone.

“I will admit that my youth played heavily into my feelings,” Moirae conceded.

“Then what happened? Why are you not married?”

Moirae glided left, and coming off a high arc, she attempted to push his blade aside. “We saw life differently.”

Ahhhh, Dorian thought to himself, the fool had not understood her. But then, who besides someone like him, could? “This man, it sounds as if he didn’t love you in return.”

Moirae’s jaw snapped shut. The truth stung. She pretended to disengage his halfhearted thrust and swung around to attack the opening he had left by stepping in close in an effort to remove the advantage his height gave him. Instead, he surprised her by looping his arm around her waist to bring her even closer.

“You give your heart too easily, I think,” he murmured with barely checked passion.

Moirae’s eyes sprang upward to meet the superheated gleam of his gaze, and a slow, powerful wave of lust washed over her. Feeling powerless, she tried to pull free. “That is where you are wrong.”

Dorian held tight. “I think you have given it to me.”

Her green eyes clawed him like talons. “My heart is my own.”

His left hand plunged into her hair, keeping her head near his. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered.

Moirae swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and boldly held on to his gaze. “I assure you that my heart is safe. I may desire you physically, but that is all.”

Dorian clasped both swords in his right hand, and bringing them out from between them, he released the handles. The resulting clatter filled the room, but he ignored it. “And I desire you, Moirae. More than I have desired a woman in a long, long time. But understand this, if I have you, make no claims upon me and weep no tears, for we will share nothing more. Promise me.”

He heard her make a small hungry sound deep in her throat, and she pressed her body against his. “Promise me,” he repeated with barely controlled restraint.

“I promise,” she whispered, and upon hearing the words, Dorian swooped down and hungrily captured her mouth, his tongue delving deep inside, fervently tangling with hers.

He drew his thumb across her bottom lip, and as her mouth parted under the gentle pressure, he retraced the path of his thumb with his tongue. His hands moved of their own accord, lightly over her shoulders, following the smooth curve of her back, stroking, caressing. The innocent playful tip of her tongue brought him back, and Dorian realized the passion growing between them was truly new to her. Tonight, he would guide her into a world few ever experienced, for the art of making love required exquisite restraint and consummate finesse. And in return she would take him to a hallowed realm where there were no words, only ecstasy and pure pleasure. A realm he had almost forgotten existed.

Pulling her tightly to him, he pressed his hips firmly against hers. She let go a soft moan as he let his need for her be known. “Kiss me,” he demanded hoarsely.

Immediately Moirae obliged, teasing his mouth with her lips, awakening every dormant nerve in his body. He groaned, lost in the innocent beauty of her touch, forgetting his promise to make tonight about her. His Lady Destiny had arrived. Their meeting, their inevitable mating, had been fated. Nothing could touch them, neither her past nor his future, only the awareness of the present that enclosed them.

Moirae closed her eyes as his lips kissed her lightly, feathering over the arch of her neck to the soft spot behind her ear. She craved to savor the moment, to draw it out. How long had it been since someone had kissed her like this? Too long. Perhaps never. For she would remember this burning deep inside, this overwhelming desire to lay with a man and have him know her intimately. It was tempting to throw him on the floor, strip off her gown, and have her way with him there and then. But her strength had deserted her.

As if he could read her mind, Dorian swung her up into his heavily muscled arms. She couldn’t stop herself from stroking his chest through the thin material of his shirt as he carried her down the hall and into his bedchambers.

Placing her back on her feet, he turned and closed the door. A small fire had been lit, causing shadows to sprinkle the walls of the cavernous room. It was the first time she had been in his private chambers, and the dark setting reflected his preference for fine furniture and decorations that obviously came from another land. Tapestries had been hung high, depicting both familiar and foreign landscapes and people.

Moirae turned to ask about one when she was suddenly lifted off her feet. Seconds later, she was crushed into soft bedding as Dorian settled on top of her. Her mind, ready to argue, calmed as his mouth reclaimed her lips, numbing her thoughts to all but him once again.

Then his kisses moved from her lips and down her neck as the fingers of his free hand unfastened the tie at the back of her gown. He slowly slid the garment down her shoulders, letting his lips follow, leaving a trail of fiery hot kisses along her collarbone at the edge of her chemise, which he soon discarded.

Dorian sat up to look at her as the firelight cast a warm glow over her skin. He was awestruck by her beauty. He had lived nearly two millennia and yet, in all those years, never had any woman so captivated him mentally or physically. He could pretend that her pull was due to prolonged abstinence, but it would be a lie. He was in desire’s full grip, and the need to possess Moirae, have her cry out his name, was unlike any he had ever known.

Dorian stood and quickly threw off the remainder of his clothing, enjoying how her emerald eyes caressed his body, her desire becoming evident when she glanced at his straining manhood. He lowered himself slowly on top of her, until he covered her body with his own. His eyes never left hers as he leaned toward her, cradled her face in his strong hands, and gently brushed his lips against her mouth.

Moirae felt her body once again begin to burn with need. She wanted to be touched, kissed, everywhere, when Dorian’s mouth made its way from her lips down her throat to the valley between her breasts. She gasped as he took one nipple into his mouth and licked his tongue over the sensitive flesh, teasing it until she cried out with want of him.

When she arched upward, Dorian shuddered in response. He had planned to move slowly, but her impassioned cry caused all thoughts of restraint to vanish and he began to suckle. Using his thumb, he coaxed her other nipple into responding. When it was hard and straining, he shifted and took it into his mouth, relishing how Moirae writhed beneath him. Her response was uninhibited, full of honest passion that stemmed from being alive. Sexual tension seized his insides. His hand lowered, parting her thighs, until he could lace his fingers through the soft thatch of hair between her legs.

The unexpected stimulus was almost too much, and Moirae twisted and moaned while her hands clung to his shoulders. She arched her hips upward, begging for more. “Dorian, please,” she whispered.

He complied with her demand, closing his fingers around her heated flesh, letting a single finger trail along the rim of her wet core before sliding into the liquid warmth. Blood pounded in her veins and she began to shake as his fingers lightly brushed her knowingly, probing her with exquisite care. He seemed to know exactly where to touch her, lightly, slowly, deeply, finding all her secret, hidden places and making them come alive with need.

He dove deeper, and Moirae felt herself reaching another peak. “Oh, God,” she wept, lifting herself against his hand, convulsing as her body took over. Dorian smiled victoriously. The satisfaction he was drawing from her own pleasure was addictive. She was so incredibly hot and wet, and it was because of him. She belonged only to him.

Unable to wait any longer, he settled himself between her thighs, lifted her hips, and drove forward, filling her completely with one long, powerful stroke. Instinctively, she met his thrust. He began to move, slowly at first, and then with growing need and force, they began to move in a deliberate rhythm.

When he felt her body begin to peak and go into hard, tight convulsions, his arms clenched around her and he came into her with deep fierce thrusts that carried her right over the edge. Then, simultaneously, his own passion raged beyond his control. An obliterating need unlike anything he had ever experienced enveloped him. Every muscle in his body tightened almost to the point of pain. The sounds he emitted were unintelligible, but every sense, every thought was tangled in the web of pleasure she had spun over him. And then it began. The release welled up from the base of his spine, gathering under Moirae’s innocent cries until, with a great shudder, he came, so violently he was left acutely shocked . . . gasping like a man coming up from near drowning.

Delirious from pleasure, Moirae wrapped her arms around Dorian as he buried his face in her hair and let go a savage cry as his body shuddered uncontrollably.

They remained that way for some time, neither able to move or speak. Their souls had connected, and for a brief moment in time, they had become one. Neither was ready to end the illusion.

After a while, Dorian lifted his head and looked down at her with dark, passion-filled eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear, just before planting a kiss on her nape.

Moirae closed her eyes and reminded herself of her promise, not to just him, but to herself. She had a destiny to fulfill and it was time she renewed her efforts along that predetermined path. She had to let him go, which would now be even harder. She had lied when she had claimed her heart was her own. As he had correctly guessed, she had given it away weeks ago. Dorian was its keeper now, and wherever he went, he would unknowingly take her love with him.

Forcing her mouth to curve into a smile, she said, “You are unlike anyone I shall ever meet again.” Then she quickly planted a kiss on his lips before rolling out from underneath him.

Dorian turned over to his side and watched her dress. She was doing exactly as promised, making no claims and weeping no tears. And it bothered him greatly.

The ease of her movements would almost lead him to believe that what they had just shared had been merely pleasant and not the rare thing it was. Only her haunting expression before she had risen confirmed she felt the same as he did. Her smile had not reached her eyes. Instead, a profound sadness had reflected in the dark green pools, conveying how she was giving up something she desperately wanted but knew she could not have.

And she was right—she couldn’t, Dorian reminded himself.

Humans and his kind could not sustain a relationship for any length of time. To be together, he would have to change her, and the idea of Moirae becoming a spawn, losing what made her compelling and desirable, was not an option. Still, the idea of never touching her again was also unfathomable. Maybe he didn’t have to leave so soon.

Flinging his legs over the side of the bed, Dorian puckered his brow. “I think you should continue your lessons, for at least a little while longer.”

Moirae momentarily paused before slipping her second shoe on her foot. “I’m not ready to give you up, either,” she replied, answering his unspoken question.

Hearing her honest response, he reached out and grasped her hand. With a convincing tug, he lay back down, pulling her on top of his naked form. “Tonight?”

Moirae almost giggled upon hearing the hopeful excitement in his voice. She knew by agreeing she was just postponing the inevitable and increasing whatever pain her heart would experience when they finally did part, but at that moment, she didn’t care. Some people were fortunate enough to find several great loves throughout their life. Moirae knew that she was not one of those lucky few. Dorian was hers, though she would never tell him. And whatever they shared, the memories would have to last a very long time.

“I’ll be here.”

Dorian let go a rare brilliant grin and spun her around so he could jump up and get dressed. As he finished belting his plaid, he glanced at her. “Spar with me one last time before you go?” he half asked, half pleaded.

“Now?” Moirae asked incredulously.

“Aye, now.”

Wide-eyed, she nodded her head and followed him down the hall back to his study where the smaller katana waited for someone to wield it. Removing it from the frame, Dorian turned and gently placed the precious item in her trembling palms. Then, he gave her back a gentle nudge toward the training room.

Offering her the katana would alone ensure of her return that evening. Whenever they did finally part, he would give it to her as a gift. In a few decades, he would seek out where she passed away and reclaim the unusual sword, but until then, it would remind her of him and that gave him some peace.

Inside the training room, he picked up his own sword from where he had previously dropped it on the floor and examined the blade. Such a treasure should not have been treated so shamefully, but he knew he would repeat his recklessness if similar circumstances presented themselves again.

Moirae unsheathed the smaller sword and slowly maneuvered it in the air. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured aloud.

“Once you are skilled in its use, it will be yours.”

Moirae stood frozen in shock. Almost a full minute went by before she recovered enough to thank him. “I’m not sure why I’m being offered such a gift, but I am not foolish enough to refuse.”

“The katana is lighter, stronger, and much sharper than the broadsword,” Dorian began. “As such, it enables one to react with deadly force to sudden attacks, using cutting motions—not blocking ones. For upright targets, swing downward and diagonally while rotating your body.”

Moirae then imitated the simple move against an imaginary foe several times. After some minor adjustments, Dorian nodded in satisfaction and then showed her how to defend herself against a frontal attack.

“Now, using the same angle, slice upward. The injury is the same but much different to defend.” Dorian normally wouldn’t have even considered showing her such attacks and defense moves, but Moirae was unusual. She had the necessary strength and the speed. “But if you truly want to inflict maximum injury to an opponent, ensuring immediate death, move the blade in a straight downward cut.”

Moirae nodded, seeing how it would cause the most musculature damage.

“Knowing how to attack an opponent is necessary to ending an assault, but the ability to adequately defend oneself is primary to surviving one.” Dorian nodded for her to sheathe her sword and kneel as if she was sitting by a fire. “It is important that you learn how to draw a sword from any position, including when you are sitting.”

Slowly, Dorian demonstrated the technique of shifting from a sitting position to avoid an attack while at the same time drawing the katana and positioning it to defend himself. Moirae repeated the series of actions against a phantom opponent several times, gaining confidence and speed. Deciding to test her, Dorian raised his katana and brought it down diagonally. Immediately, Moirae leaned right and eluded the blade while drawing her own. Swinging it around her body, she was just a fraction of a second too slow to halt his second attack, and the skin on her arm was sliced open.

Moirae’s eyes sprang wide open as she dropped her sword and grabbed her arm. She could feel the blood ooze between her fingers. Her brain was registering the pain, but it was her survival instinct that dominated her thoughts. She had to get out of there now. The wound was deep and it would take time to heal, maybe a few hours, but the scab that was even now forming underneath her fingertips would prove she was not like everyone else. Dorian would demand answers she had no way of providing.

Seeing him step forward, she threw her arms around him and kissed him deeply, succeeding in distracting him. Then teasing his nose with her own, she said, “I must go. It must be morning by now. I will see you this evening.” Then after a final quick kiss, she fled down the hall and into the bailey.

Dorian stood dumbfounded. He truly believed he had severely injured her, but he must have just missed, startling them both. For there was no way she could have disguised the pain he believed he had inflicted.

Sighing, he leaned down to pick up her katana, pausing midway as he saw the drops of red blood clinging to his sword. He had cut her. Obviously not bad, but enough to cause her to bleed. The sweet scent of her blood overtook his senses and he did not resist the desire to wipe his finger down the smooth metal surface and then lick the blood.

The flavor was not sweet as its scent promised, but rancid and he immediately wished he could spit the little he had consumed out. Never had blood tasted so vile. Not even a decayed corpse produced such nastiness. The blood was definitely human, but it was different and most probably the source of what made her so strong, fast, and different.

Reacting on instinct, Dorian raced out of the tower and into the bailey in order to catch her, but he was too late. Walking to the middle of the courtyard, he stood in front of the gatehouse opening and watched as she rode into the distance. Her long hair caught the sunlight one last time before she disappeared into the forest. Dorian sighed with relief. At least it was daytime and she would be safe from Ionas. He turned to go inside as understanding suddenly slammed into him. He lifted his hand and stared at it.

Moirae was not just different with her sense of smell, enhanced reflexes, and unusual strength. She was an anomaly. By just tasting her blood he, for the first time in nearly two millennia, could feel the warm rays of the sun on his skin without the painful sensation of being burned.

He knew what Moirae was protecting. The same person his cousin was looking for—her supposedly dead mother, perhaps even grandmother. Ionas must have figured out sometime after his attack who had given him his new abilities. . . and that the effects were temporary. Moirae’s nape was flawless. Because he never fed on her, Ionas wasn’t aware that she too possessed what he was looking for. For why else would his nephew be searching so relentlessly for an old woman? That question started a flood of others to race through Dorian’s mind.

Was Moirae’s blood an evolution of the disease that afflicted him? How many generations had it been passed down? If it gave him the ability to enjoy the daylight, what other coveted gifts could the blood give a nosferatu? And most importantly, just how much did she know about her unusual abilities? Dorian doubted she was aware of the effects her blood had on his kind, but she obviously knew she was different, for it explained Moirae’s driving need to be the Guardian. She wasn’t just protecting Badenoch, but her family. And she should, for if Ionas ever discovered such secrets flowed in her veins, Moirae would be in danger.

An overwhelming need to find and protect her washed over Dorian. He fought the urge to get his horse and chase after her. Things were already complicated—and the emotional ties he could feel begin to wind around his heart would only further confuse matters.

Before Moirae returned that evening, he needed a plan that prevented Ionas from finding his prey or discovering that she had offspring. Such power in the hands of only one of their kind would incite a war that would change the balance of power.

Moirae and her family would either need to disappear or they would have to die.

How many times did he need to learn the most basic of truths? Love between mortals and immortals could not be.

Chapter Seven

Dorian stepped out onto the battlements and stared out into the thick fog, wishing his eyesight could penetrate the murky depths. Moirae was late. Too late for him to believe that something had just delayed her arrival. Either she had chosen to stay away or something had prevented her from coming.

While it was indeed possible that Moirae had decided it would be best to end their relationship as per their original agreement, Dorian found it difficult to believe she would do so without facing him. Her personality required her to confront challenges, not avoid them. But it also compelled her to seek out that which she felt entitled to—and he knew Moirae wanted the katana he had promised her. So either something at the castle had thwarted her from coming that evening . . . or she was in trouble.

Movement on the outskirts of the forest caught his attention. He took a deep breath and furrowed his brow. The haze was too thick for him to see who it was, but he recognized the faint, almost indiscernible scent. What was Metrick doing there? There was only one way to find out.

Dorian urged his black horse into a full gallop before he exited the gatehouse. If he could detect Metrick, then it was certain that Ionas’s spawn was aware of him. And based on the dissipating odor, the henchman was not there to confront Dorian but to watch and let his superiors know if he left.

After weeks of playing the Guardian and racing through the woods at night, Dorian was intimately familiar with the terrain—more so than Metrick. Within minutes, he was upon the hasty henchman, and with a single slice of the katana, the spawn’s side was ripped open, causing him to fall to the ground. Not waiting to slow down his mount, Dorian expertly spun off his still racing horse and landed on the ground.

Feeling the katana’s tip on his throat, the spawn knew he was facing imminent death.

“Why did Ionas send you to watch me?” Dorian asked impatiently.

Metrick smiled and the blood filling his mouth outlined his teeth. Death, the one thing he had feared most, was upon him, and he was grateful. But he would not die without issuing one final blow. “You’re too late, Dorian. Patras has her.”

“Patras?” Dorian echoed. “Just what does he want with Moirae?”

“I told him,” Metrick sputtered. “You . . . standing unharmed, unburned in the sunlight. . . .”

Dorian flicked the katana’s tip, and it divided the spawn’s head from its body, ending the halted speech. Dorian needed to hear no more. Metrick had been hidden in the forest and he had seen them that morning and informed Patras, who no doubt had notified Ionas before leaving to abduct Moirae. She was still alive, of that Dorian was positive. But she would be tortured before too long. As soon as Ionas and Patras realized that she had inherited the unique blood they coveted, they would want to find all of her family and would use any means to get her to talk.

Dorian broke the water’s surface and inhaled. Relief flooded through him when he detected Moirae’s sweet, alluring scent. There was only a handful of places Patras would have taken Moirae, and none of them were close to the other. But the Wolf ’s Lair, located on the northern edge of the hills of Am Monadh Ruadh, was the closest and most fortified. Situated in the middle of a remote loch, the fortress Loch nan Doirb had been gifted to the nephew of the king, Robert the Steward (the future Robert II) by his second wife (Euphemia of Rass). His merciless son, Alexander (the Wolf of Badenoch), tended to rampage the area and had no problem offering use of his father’s stronghold to someone like Patras, who fueled both his ambition and his cruel streak.

Bringing Moirae to Loch nan Doirb gave Dorian a distinct advantage, but it also presented a major problem. The loch allowed him to temporarily mask his scent and approach undetected by means of water, but once there, the place was nearly impossible to breach. Four towers were connected by a curtain wall approximately six feet thick and nearly twenty feet high. With the exception of an impressive iron gate, the east wall had no discernable defense and was the primary entrance from the shore. Consequently, it would be well manned with spawns. On the south wall, there was a second gateway, but because it provided no access to the inner court, the chances of him being discovered before getting to Moirae were high, leaving only one option. The western wall behind the chapel. All attempts to climb it had been futile . . . but never had it been tried by a nosferatu.

Carefully, Dorian rose out of the water, and though not without effort, he managed to scale the curtain wall. He moved quickly, for once dry, his scent would be strong enough to alert Patras and his men that he was near. Reaching the top of the chapel, he inhaled once again to assess the situation. Two things stood out. His nephew had not yet arrived, and the numbers of spawn were far less than Dorian would have guessed, but those he recognized were old and heavily experienced in combat.

Creeping near the rooftop’s edge, Dorian glanced around the inner bailey. Every scone was lit, and anything that could be used to hide a person, such as carts and barrels, had been removed. There was nothing left to conceal a sneak approach. Patras, who had always been strategically gifted, had grown even wiser since their last encounter.

Dorian was debating when and where he should drop down when Patras came into the keep. It had been several decades since Dorian had seen the lead henchman. His brilliant white hair had grown long, but otherwise he looked the same. His body still possessed the hard-edge strength that enabled him to command a sizeable force of volatile spawns.

Patras extended one long arm and pointed to the largest of the men heading toward him. “Bring me the girl!”

Dorian did not recognize the bulky spawn, but it was obvious that the big Highlander was not the type who was easily intimidated. Nevertheless, he immediately turned and strode toward the kitchens. But before he could take more than a handful of steps, Patras stopped him. “Why is she in there?!”

The angry bellow could be heard throughout the stronghold, catching everyone’s attention. Undeterred, the spawn straightened his shoulders and pivoted to once again face Patras. “She refused to tell us the location of the others. So I ordered her to be bled.”

Patras marched right up to the man and demanded, “And just who gave you permission to issue such commands?”

“You did. You said to make her talk and you also promised that she was to be shared.”

“Dead, she is only good to us once. . . .”

Dorian could not hear the rest of Patras’s response, but it was clear he was furious. It was just as apparent that the Highlander Patras was dealing with had enormous sway among the other spawns and was not someone who could easily be eliminated without repercussions. Otherwise, the man would have been afraid not defiant, and most likely already dead.

Still composed, the spawn said calmly but loud enough for all to hear, “Just so you understand that when this is done, we”—he paused to point at all who were watching the interaction—“will no longer live according to your or anyone else’s will. She is for all of us. You are not the only one who is opposed to dying.” With those final words, the spawn turned and disappeared into the kitchens.

So that was why Patras was so interested in Moirae, Dorian thought to himself. It also explained why he had not spied or sensed his nephew once since his arrival. Ionas had no idea Patras had finally found who he had been looking for or that his henchman had discovered just why she was so important. Obviously Patras believed Moirae’s blood could do much more than just protect him from sunlight. Was it possible that it could also extend a spawn’s life?

If that was true and word spread about her or her family’s existence, it would not be simply a fierce battle among nosferatu—it would be the beginning of a major war that would affect all life. No longer would spawns be aligned with their masters. They would be masters themselves. Painful, destructive, and costly lessons that had taken a handful of nosferatu a millennia to learn after repeated attempts would have to be discovered by thousands of spawns. The human race would not survive such a future.

A cry from below caught Dorian’s attention. Moirae was being hauled outside. She was still wearing the same gown from when he last saw her, causing him to grimace. That meant she had been abducted on the way home. He had been a fool to think his teachings could keep her safe.

Her arm was bandaged and he could see blood stains through the strips of cloth, but by the force the spawns needed to control her struggles, the bleeding must have only just commenced, making her blood loss minimal.

Patras walked up to her and lovingly stroked her cheek. “Where’s Metrick?” he asked to no spawn in particular.

“He has not yet returned.”

Hearing the answer, Patras looked up and surveyed the curtain walls. Dorian knew he could not be seen where he was, but if he moved, his position would be revealed. But time was not on his side. He was drying, and soon the moss covering him from the lake water would no longer mask his presence. Whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it soon.

“Double the men guarding both gates.”

Moirae grinned with false confidence. “You are monsters, but there is one who can defeat you.”

Patras returned the smirk. “And you think Dorian is coming to save you?”

The color drained from Moirae’s face as she realized that her captor not only knew of Dorian, but was unafraid of him.

“Of course, Dorian is coming,” Patras mocked, “but not for the reasons you would like to believe.”

“I think he will come to kill you and your fellow monsters, or do you believe you can convince him to become friends?” Moirae spat out.

Dorian smiled, hearing her response. The woman was terrified, but she refused to give in to her fears.

Patras, however, laughed aloud. “Kill us monsters?”

“Yes.” The answer lacked complete belief, but it was not vacant of hope.

“Silly human girl.” Patras sniggered. “Don’t you know by now that he is one of us monsters? And with the exception of perhaps one other of his kind, your would-be savior is the most unmoved by mortals and their plights.”

Dorian listened to what Patras was telling Moirae, knowing that upon hearing the truth, she would believe it, but he forced his mind to focus on what was happening. Patras’s orders to increase gate security had caused the inner bailey to be evacuated, leaving only Patras and the two guards holding Moirae.

Shifting his attention to one of her guards, Patras asked, “Is the blood that was drained still in the kitchen?” Upon getting an affirmative nod, Patras continued. “Bring her to my bedchambers. I will be there shortly.” Then he turned to enter the kitchens.

Dorian scampered lightly to the other side of the chapel rooftop. It was not adjacent to the keep, but it was close enough. He waited until the two guards were in view and then dropped down onto them. He was able to instantly knock out one and then kill the other, but not before the spawn could issue a shout to alert the castle that Dorian was inside.

Freed, Moirae stared at Dorian. No warmth was in her eyes, only wariness, and he knew she was replaying Patras’s last words and realizing they were true. He threw her the smaller katana, and she snatched it out of the air, unable to reconcile that the monster Patras had described would arm her with such a weapon.

“Explanations later, Lady Destiny,” whispered Dorian. “We need to get through that gate.”

A sparkle leapt back into Moirae’s eyes just as the first wave came to kill them. Reacting on instinct and what training she had received, Moirae sliced with deft movements and strength the spawns had not been expecting. But the second group, seeing how easily the first had been defeated, came in more cautiously and dismissed the concept they were fighting a human woman, but something far more powerful and deadly. But it did them no good.

Dorian felt renewed hope. They were going to have to fight their way to freedom, but Moirae was performing in combat as he wished more humans would after hours of training and skills development. She had no fear. She was accurate, unemotional, and surprisingly creative. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had found a woman that could be more than a companion, but an equal. Someone whom he knew he would never tire of, someone who could instill daily meaning into his life . . . someone he could respect and love. It was absurd. She was a human, the one thing he had sworn to avoid, but it was too late. He did love her. Fully. Completely.

He also knew that even if they survived . . . it changed nothing.

They broke free and dashed to the gate only for a final small group of spawns to jump down and block their way. The large Highlander was among them. Dorian immediately lunged for him, fearing that Moirae, despite her inhuman strength, would not be able to tackle the giant. After several minutes of fighting, he finally struck him down. But just as the katana slammed down into the large frame, ending the spawn’s life, Moirae cried out. This time in sheer fear.

Dorian swung back around to see Patras biting down into her neck, drinking. Seeing Dorian, the old spawn released his grip and let her limp form fall to the ground. “I’m like you now, Dorian. A nosferatu. An immortal. We are brothers. You can try to harm me, but I will now heal. You cannot kill me.”

Patras slid out a blade from his belt and smiled broadly. It was not a smile of arrogance, but one of absolute confidence. After four hundred years, he was the best of Ionas’s men at wielding a blade. But he had lived those years as a spawn, protecting his body, never learning how to defend the one thing that would end an immortal’s life.

With lightning speed, Dorian leapt into the air and spun around, swinging the katana with precision. Before his feet touched the ground again, Patras’s brief experience with immortality had ended.

Human, spawn, or immortal. One needed their head.

Chapter Eight

Moirae stirred to the unusual sensation of being gently rocked. She opened her eyes and quickly surveyed her surroundings. Close quarters, wood floors and walls, distinct odor of fish and salt, and on a far table were two katanas, sheathed and in their holder. She was on a ship and Dorian was with her. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she realized she was naked and immediately searched the room for her clothes.

In her youth, she would have been embarrassed to awaken in such a state, but based on her last memories, Moirae was more thankful to be alive. But how Dorian had saved her, and why he did so considering what he was, remained a mystery. She needed to find him, but not just yet. First, she needed to consider all that she had learned and just what that meant to her and her future—if anything.

It was not Dorian, but a creature like him, that had killed her family and, twice now, tried to kill her. Was he truly different? It was obvious now that the reason he had coveted her role as the Guardian was so that he could disguise his bloody activities. Like the others, Dorian fed on people and he was not remorseful about doing so. But he chose to feed on criminals whom she, too, would have killed, if given the opportunity. In addition, he could have fed on her many times, and yet he elected not to. Why?

Dorian was indeed unlike the monsters she had sought to find and kill. He had saved people—including her—by putting himself in danger. But Moirae had always known that he did so for an ulterior motive, not from altruistic urges. He had known from nearly the beginning that she was unusual—stronger, faster—but it wasn’t until she was captured did he learn just how special her blood was. And yet, here she was. Still alive and relatively whole.

Whatever Dorian was, he possessed a soul, and even more importantly, he owned her heart. Nothing had changed that. He was still the man who understood her, challenged her, fascinated her, and made her feel alive in a way no normal man ever could. And she suspected the reason she was still alive was because he felt similarly about her. No other reason explained her continued existence when her death would be so much easier.

The door opened and Moirae’s head snapped to the large figure entering. It was Dorian and he was carrying her clothes, which had been cleaned. He briefly hesitated at seeing her naked form before handing them to her. Then without explanation, he went and sat down in the small compartment’s only chair.

Moirae watched silently as he adjusted the seat several times, pretending to find a more comfortable spot to sit and extend his legs. She knew he was waiting for her to ask questions, and she had many. Most of which were personal, but she decided to start with the easiest, or the one whose answer she thought she already knew and therefore would be the least surprising. That would give her a guide as to how Dorian would answer the ones that were much more important—where was she going, what he intended to do when they got there, and how did he feel about her?

Shaking the chemise free from its folds, she dropped the soft, clean garment over her head. Feeling somewhat more on an equal footing, she picked up the kirtle and asked pointedly, “What are you exactly? Do you admit to being what that white-haired one said?”

Dorian crossed his legs and intertwined his fingers above his stomach. He had known the question was coming. Moirae was not one to pretend or wish a problem away. In a way, he admired her for that trait. To confront an issue, even if it could possibly mean harm, was in essence, pure bravery. And that was a quality so rarely found in humans. As a result, he felt compelled to answer her question honestly and completely, when typically he would have ignored it.

“Yes and no. Like I told you before, I was born in Greece and I have lived for a very long time. My grandfather was a human man, but after surviving a large flood, he discovered his blood had changed, giving him unusual abilities that were inherited by his offspring, of which I am one. This ‘blood disease’ gives us extended life, as well as an increase in strength and sense of smell, among other things. It also makes us crave blood, to the point we will die without it.”

Moirae listened intently as she finished donning her kirtle. She waited to see if he had just paused, but when he didn’t continue, she pushed. “And just how are you different from the brute with the white hair?”

Dorian raised a single brow but otherwise did not move as he assessed Moirae’s strange response to what he had already revealed. No shock registered on her expression or her mannerisms. Just as surprising was the lack of repulsion. It was as if he were telling her an interesting story of his childhood, not that he was a monster who could and did kill her kind. He wondered at what point she would have a negative reaction.

He was positive, however, that one was coming.

“Nosferatu or nosophoros,” he began, “as we are called in our native tongue, are actually very few in number. We suspect the disease that changed our blood weakened with each generation, but it is also possible that whatever caused our change disappeared before we discovered its origins. Because the disease only begins to manifest itself during later stages of physical development and full change can take several years to complete, we did not realize our children were mortal and had not inherited our abilities for many years.”

The word hit Moirae like a hammer to the chest. She should have known Dorian would have children . . . several children, and that knowledge was disconcerting.

“So you don’t die . . . ever?” she asked, skepticism finally creeping into her voice. “The others I saw feared death, something you are claiming to elude. Why aren’t they chasing you and your blood?”

“Patras was a spawn. When nosferatu feed on humans, they die. But a millennia ago, one of my brothers discovered by accident that if he did not kill a mortal upon feeding, a small number would survive the experience. They gained many nosferatu abilities, including the extension of their life, sometimes up to several hundred years. Greed rules most spawns’ actions. And the one thing they covet the most is unending life.”

“And that is why the white-haired one wanted me.”

“Yes. He thought you could give them immortality.”

Moirae sank back onto the mattress and licked her lips, taking in all that Dorian had just told her. Part of her screamed to ask about where she was going, why she was going there, and a dozen other questions, but mostly she needed to know that with everything that had happened, did it change things between them? Because for her, it had significantly.

She had been consumed with finding and killing whatever had murdered her mother and grandmother. Now that she had, her purpose had vanished. In its place was not a void but something far scarier. A new overriding need that was even more powerful. She loved Dorian. He completed her. Learning what he was did not make them incompatible but possibly made him the only man in the world perfect for her.

Moirae knew he felt something for her. Nothing else explained his actions. But would he admit to being in love?

“And what about me?” she finally asked.

Dorian rose to his feet and went to stand to look out the room’s one small window. “You are on my boat. I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

“I’m talking about you and me.”

“There is no you and me. You promised you understood that,” he stated coldly, still looking out at the horizon.

Moirae moved to go stand by him. She rested her hand on his arm and felt a small flinch beneath her fingertips. It confirmed that he was not as dispassionate as he wanted her to believe. “Why?”

Dorian turned to look at her straight in the eye so that she would know he was being earnest, and that there was no compromise in his decision. “I will not stay and watch you grow old and die. I’ve done it before and I won’t do it again. I can’t do it . . . especially not with you.” He turned to look back out the window. “So I’m taking you to safety and will go back for your family. Once I’m assured that you are secure, you will never see me again.”

Moirae nodded her head in understanding. Dorian loved her. He could not say it, and she, more than anyone else, truly understood why. She now knew who he was. It was time for him to discover her secrets.

Resting her head on his forearm, she joined his gaze out to the rolling waters. In the distance, she could see the hazy outlines of mountains, but they were not the mammoth hills she had grown to love. “I have no family for you to save.”

Dorian held his breath. He had been afraid that was a possibility, though he had hoped otherwise. Having no family made it a lot easier to keep her safe and her uniqueness unknown, but it would also mean that when he left, she would be alone with no one she knew or trusted.

“Were their deaths recent?” The question was a selfish one, but he needed to know if it had happened while he had forced himself to be the Guardian.

“No.” She raised her head and tugged his arm to make him look at her. “My grandmother was beautiful.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dorian whispered.

Before he could return his gaze to the window, she continued. “No, not just beautiful, but stunning. No one ever believed she was my grandmother. In truth, neither did I until years after she had passed away.”

“I am sure your mother told you otherwise.”

“She did, but not convincingly. I think my mother was jealous of my grandmother, and in a way me, since I am so much like her.”

Dorian cocked his head and studied Moirae for a second. She was trying to make a point, but he could not grasp what it could be. “Why are you telling me this?”

A large smile came over Moirae’s face. “How old do you think I am?”

A puzzled expression overtook Dorian’s brow. “I am not sure. But I suspect you look younger than you are.”

Moirae chuckled. “I should hope so. I will be four and sixty before the end of this year.”

Dorian’s attention was immediately captured, and he stared at her to see if she was in earnest. Instinctively, he inhaled. “But you are human,” he mumbled.

“If you mean I don’t drink blood, you are correct. But I also don’t age. I haven’t since the night my mother and grandmother were killed. I was seventeen.”

“Were you bitten?”

Moirae shrugged but nodded. “Yes, the one who attacked us fed on my mother and then tried to feed on me, but immediately stopped. I don’t think he liked how I tasted,” she said quietly, remembering the event not with horror but curiosity. “My grandmother said that she knew I was different as an infant when a dog accidentally bit me and I healed within hours. My sense of smell grew throughout childhood, and my strength came later, but whatever I am, it is not because of that night. It is the reason I survived.”

Dorian was quiet for several minutes as complete comprehension took over. How could he have been such a fool not to realize it before? The night he first brought her back to Kilnhurst—she had been injured. Just like when he had thought to have seriously cut her arm. Both times she had healed. It was why she did not taste anything like the young, sweet thing she smelled. It also explained her unusual view of the world and those around her. It was not a mortal’s view, but an immortal’s one.

And yet, despite her being human, there were too many similarities between their capabilities. There had to be a connection. “You’ve mentioned your grandmother, but who is your father? Could he be the reason why you are different?”

“Perhaps,” Moirae answered, stepping away. “I never knew him.”

“You said he died at sea.”

“I said that is what I was told.”

“I got the feeling then, as I do now, that you do not believe that.”

“What I don’t believe is that he was married to my mother. She would never talk about him, describe him, or tell me stories about him.”

“Then you know nothing that could tell you who he was.”

“Very little. My grandmother would bring me aside and tell me what a wonderful man he was and that of all the sorrows in her life, that I did not know him was her greatest.”

“We have to find out who your father was.”

“We do?”

“Well, you want me to come with you, don’t you?”

Moirae crossed her arms and tried unsuccessfully to look dismissive. “I thought you had to drop me off, save me, and never see me again,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Well, that was before . . . I mean, now that I know you are, well, what you are . . . what I said should no longer matter.” Then grabbing her shoulders, he dragged her into his embrace, holding her tightly to him. “You don’t think that I could now possibly let you go, do you?”

Moirae bit her bottom lip, trying not to grin too broadly. “Then you do love me.”

Dorian ignored her and pointed out the window. “So am I coming with you or not?”

“Oh, you are definitely coming with me.”

She felt him exhale and his body relax, just before he whispered, “Then I suppose you must love me.”

Moirae laughed. They would need to work on improving their communication—but they had several lifetimes to perfect saying life’s three hardest words.

“You’ll say it to me someday,” she murmured loud enough for him to hear.

“Aye, and you will say it to me. But I bet it will be you who will admit to such a vulnerability first.”

Moirae smiled, knowing this would be the first of many challenges she intended to win.

BORN TO BITE

HANNAH HOWELL
DIANA COSBY
ERICA RIDLEY

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Books by Hannah Howell

ONLY FOR YOU * MY VALIANT KNIGHT
UNCONQUERED * WILD ROSES
A TASTE OF FIRE * HIGHLAND DESTINY
HIGHLAND HONOR * HIGHLAND PROMISE
A STOCKINGFUL OF JOY * HIGHLAND VOW
HIGHLAND KNIGHT * HIGHLAND HEARTS
HIGHLAND BRIDE * HIGHLAND ANGEL
HIGHLAND GROOM * HIGHLAND WARRIOR
RECKLESS * HIGHLAND CONQUEROR
HIGHLAND CHAMPION * HIGHLAND LOVER
HIGHLAND VAMPIRE * THE ETERNAL HIGHLANDER
MY IMMORTAL HIGHLANDER * CONQUEROR’S KISS
HIGHLAND BARBARIAN * BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
HIGHLAND SAVAGE * HIGHLAND THIRST
HIGHLAND WEDDING * HIGHLAND WOLF
SILVER FLAME * HIGHLAND FIRE
NATURE OF THE BEAST * HIGHLAND CAPTIVE
HIGHLAND SINNER * MY LADY CAPTOR
IF HE’S WICKED * WILD CONQUEST
IF HE’S SINFUL * KENTUCKY BRIDE * IF HE’S WILD
YOURS FOR ETERNITY * COMPROMISED HEARTS
HIGHLAND PROTECTOR * STOLEN ECSTACY
IF HE’S DANGEROUS * HIGHLAND HERO
HIGHLAND HUNGER * HIGHLAND AVENGER
HIS BONNIE BRIDE * BORN TO BITE

Books by Diana Cosby

HIS CAPTIVE * HIS WOMAN
HIS CONQUEST * HIS DESTINY

Books by Erica Ridley

TOO WICKED TO KISS * TOO SINFUL TO DENY

Publishing by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Table of Contents

Also by
Title Page
DARK SECRET

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine

HIGHLAND VAMPIRE

Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue

NEVER BEEN BITTEN

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

DARK SECRET

Hannah Howell

Prologue

Spring 1514
Scotland

The two crosses were simple, the letters carved into the wood neat but obviously done by an untrained hand. It would not be long before the words were stolen away by the wind and rain. A shiver went through Murdina Dunbar, and she knew it had nothing to do with the bite of chill in the wind. Her aunt and uncle had been buried in unconsecrated ground.

Murdina sighed and fought the urge to weep. It was not so much grief that caused the sting of tears in her eyes as it was a crushing disappointment. She had traveled so far to find her aunt and uncle, hoped for a cousin or two as well. Every step of the way she had prayed that she would soon be part of a family again. Instead, she found herself still alone. Utterly alone.

“If ye be looking for their demon spawn, ye are too late. She and that bairn she hid are gone.”

Demon spawn? Murdina turned to look at the man who had spoken to her, annoyed with herself for being so lost in self-pity she had not heard his approach. He was short, filthy, and had a belly that revealed he ate too well far too often. The intuition that had cursed her for her whole life immediately marked him as ignorant and brutal.

“What do ye mean by demon spawn, sir?” she asked, and knew her anger over his words had seeped into her tone, for his muddy brown eyes narrowed with wary malice.

“The mother was a witch, aye? What else could she have been with all her potions and love of the night, eh?” He scratched his belly. “We took care of the lassie’s witch of a mother, but no one wanted to hurt the lass, too. She was a healer like her mother, and we didnae want to be left with no healer at all, did we? Then wee Adeline, their demon spawn, took in that cursed bairn. Wheesht, there was nay denying that the bairn was Satan’s own. Anne herself said so when she tried to be rid of the bairn that demon had begotten on her, but the lass saved it. We tried to get rid of the lad ourselves after that, but she ran off with him. Young Adeline guarded that lad as if he were her own.”

Good for her, Murdina thought, proud of her cousin. “Where did she run to?”

“Why do ye care? Ye are weel shed of the likes of her.” He looked her over. “Though, now that I get a good look at you, I see ye have the look of her and her fool da. All that cursed red hair, too. Blood will tell, aye?”

“Will it? Then ye will be verra pleased to learn that I dinnae intend to linger here. As soon as ye tell me where Adeline went, I will leave.”

“Dinnae ken where she went, do I? Some of our men chased her, but they didnae return. Another lot of fools went out ahunting for her, and they did stop here for a wee while. One of their men was hurt. They said the lass had taken up with one of those demons one hears tales of. MacNachtons the mon called them. One of them demons was helping the lass protect the bairn, and they were all headed toward the far hills,” he said and nodded, pointing toward the north.

Murdina sighed, picked up the reins of her sturdy pony, and started to walk in the direction he had waved his short, dirty finger in.

“ ’Tis said no one returns from those hills,” he called after her.

“I certainly willnae be returning, whether I go to those hills or nay.”

Her heart was choked with grief and sympathy for her cousin. Poor Adeline, Murdina thought, although she was pleased to discover she had a cousin and the cousin’s name. Adeline was as alone as she was, however. All her cousin had was a bairn that fools like that filthy man behind her wanted to kill. Her cousin would need help to protect the child, she decided. The man marked as a demon by superstitious fools might not have stayed with Adeline. All Murdina had to do now was find her cousin.

As she looked toward the distant hills, she hesitated and shivered, but quickly stiffened her spine. The hills were shrouded in a heavy mist despite the fact that it was a bright, sunny day. It made her uneasy, but she shook off the tickle of fear that tried to take root in her heart. If she had to track her cousin into those ominous mists, she would do so. Now that she knew she had family left, she would allow nothing to stop her from finding Adeline. Not even wild, frightening talk of demons.

Chapter One

“We have an important guest, and ye have been chosen to be his maid.”

Murdina glanced up from the linen she had been scrubbing clean to the plump Mistress McKee and then back down at her work. “Ye told me I was to be the laundry maid only this morn.”

“Weel, Jeanne will be the laundry maid now. She isnae the sort of lass we want to be maid to such a fine gentlemon. Too dirty, too rough, ye ken.”

And too quick to lift her skirts, thought Murdina as she dried her hands, stepping away from the laundry tub so that a flushed, scowling Jeanne could take her place. “Ye say he is an important mon?”

“Aye.” Mistress McKee grabbed Murdina by the arm and pulled her out of the laundry room that also served as the bathing room for men of lesser rank. “Ye also speak far finer than our Jeanne does.”

It was strange to be chosen for something that would only rouse spite or suspicion amongst the other servants of Dunnantinny. Murdina made no complaint, however. Acting the maid for some fine gentleman guest had to be easier than scrubbing pots or washing linen. Unless, she mused, he was the sort of man to think all maids working in a keep were his for the taking. Since she would never tolerate being treated that way, there was a chance that this new position within the keep could land her in enough trouble to be thrown out. The laird would not take it kindly if she insulted or injured his guest. Being tossed out would actually be the most merciful of the punishments she could face for such actions, and the laird of Dunnantinny was not known for his merciful nature.

Accepting the heavy bucket of heated water Mistress McKee thrust at her, Murdina wished she had traveled a little farther before stopping. The bucket was heavy enough that the rope handle cut into her palm, but it was better than having Mistress McKee still touching her. The cold rigidity of the woman had begun to seep into Murdina. Unfortunately, she could not tell the woman not to touch her, so she simply braced for that chill every time it happened.

Being close to so many people all the time was a strain as her curse often made her all too aware of the feelings of those around her, especially when they touched her. She had learned almost nothing about her cousin Adeline, either, despite how close the keep was to the village where Adeline had been the healer. Nor had she collected much coin with which to continue her journey. In truth, all she had collected were bruises, blisters, and backaches as well as far too much knowledge of the venality of some of the keep’s residents. She was no stranger to hard work, but being a maid in a crowded keep was a lot different than being a blacksmith’s daughter. If she had learned more than just evil gossip about her cousin, she might have considered it all worthwhile, but she still had little more than what that filthy man had said as she had stood over the graves of her aunt and uncle. Only a need for coin kept her at Dunnantinny now.

“Greetings, Sir Baldwin,” said Mistress McKee, pulling Murdina free of her dark thoughts and aching disappointment. “I had the maid bring ye up some hot water. I suspicion ye would like a wash after your long journey.” She pulled Murdina into the room. “Fill up the ewer and bowl, lass.”

Smothering the urge to push back, Murdina went to do as she had been told. She only half-listened to Mistress McKee and Sir Baldwin talk. The man had a very attractive deep voice, she thought as she checked the drying cloth near the washing bowl to be sure it was clean and dry. Listening to him speak made her belly tense in the oddest way. There was a soothing calm about him that eased the chill Mistress McKee had infected her with, but beneath that calm was a shadow, and she suspected he had a few secrets.

“Murdina will be your maid during your stay here,” Mistress McKee said. “Lass, make your curtsey to the mon.”

Murdina turned and curtsied, careful to keep her gaze respectfully lowered. It was as she began to rise up out of her curtsey that she chanced a look at Sir Baldwin and nearly stumbled. It took all of her willpower to keep her expression one of calm and respect and not rudely gape at the man.

Men were not supposed to be beautiful, she told herself. Yet, beautiful was the first word that came to mind. No wonder Mistress McKee had sounded close to cooing sweetly when she talked to the man, a touch of warmth actually invading that rigid chill the woman carried. He was more than handsome. He had to be at least two hands taller than her. His body had the long, powerful lines of the finest of stallions that had passed through her father’s shop. Thick, gleaming black hair hung to the middle of his broad back, two warrior braids framing his face.

And such a face, Murdina mused, unable to look away. A strong jaw, well-defined cheekbones, and a sharp blade of a nose with no hint of the bump so many men had, the remnant of a nose too often broken. He was smiling at her, his slightly full lips parted just enough to reveal a glimpse of strong, healthy teeth. Yet, she knew deep in her heart that his heartbreakingly beautiful face could harden into a look any predator would be proud of. A look that even that enticing mouth would not soften.

His eyes, however, were what firmly caught her attention. The color of pure amber, they were nicely spaced, neither too large nor too small, set beneath tidy, arched brows, and encircled with lashes so thick and long they would cause every woman who saw them to suffer sharp spasms of envy. Those eyes beckoned, tempted, enthralled. Murdina knew that one heated look from them would be enough to seduce even the most pious of women.

When his smile widened a little, Murdina knew he had detected her fascination. She fought against blushing like some tiresome girl and looked to Mistress McKee as if awaiting the woman’s next command. It would be one she would obey immediately, especially if it got her out of Sir Baldwin’s bedchamber. The way the man made her feel, an odd mixture of nervous and excited, made her anxious to get far away from him. She considered asking to be relieved of her duties as his maid, but only briefly. Not only did she not wish to try and explain why she asked for such a thing, she refused to allow one too handsome man to make her a coward.

“The evening meal willnae be set out for a few hours yet, sir,” said Mistress McKee. “Would ye like a wee bite of something to take the edge off your hunger until then?”

Murdina wondered why that perfectly reasonable question should make the man look so amused.

“That would be most kind of ye, Mistress McKee,” he replied.

“Go, lass, and fetch the mon a tray of food and drink.”

It took more effort than Murdina liked to simply walk away. She wanted to run. There was something in the way the man looked at her, the way that look made her feel, that urged her to run. Run like a deer scenting a pack of wolves, she thought as she made her way down to the kitchens.

Foolishness, she scolded herself. The man offered her no threat. She would have sensed it if he had, one of the few good things that came of the gift she had been cursed with. It was not his fault her heart pounded when she looked at him. He had done nothing, said nothing, to entice her. The proof of that was in the calm respect Mistress McKee treated him with, that faint wisp of warmth she revealed. If the man had tried to immediately seduce the maid Mistress McKee had chosen for him, the woman’s mood would definitely have soured. Mistress McKee had a very rigid set of morals that often amazed Murdina, considering the somewhat widespread lack of morals within the keep.

What astonished Murdina even more was how one look at Sir Baldwin had slashed at the foundations of her own morals. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she had wanted to touch, to taste, that far too tempting mouth of his. She had wanted to rouse the heat of passion in those mysterious eyes. That was so unlike her, so against her vow to touch people as little as possible, for she truly did not want to know what they felt, that she decided it was why she had become so anxious to get away from him. With that admission, however, she grew calm. Now that she knew what her weakness was, had recognized it as no more than a woman’s response to a far too attractive man, she could control it. As she collected the food to bring to him, she strengthened her resolve and reminded herself that she was not at the keep to find herself a man but to learn what she could about the MacNachtons and then find her cousin.

Gillanders smiled as he stripped to his braes and began to wash the dust of travel from his body. Mistress McKee was a rigid woman, proud of her high place in the keep and undoubtedly fighting a losing battle with her attempts to keep the maids under her rule as pious as she so obviously was. Most maids in a keep like this were eager to earn an extra coin or two now and then by warming a man’s bed, especially if that man was young, hale, and reasonably handsome. Of course, if dear Mistress McKee found out he was no Baldwin but one of the much whispered about MacNachtons, she would be worried about far more than the fact that her maids had few morals when it came to bedding a man who looked as if he had that coin or two to spare for them.

The thought that the young maid Murdina was of that ilk made him frown. He was not sure why it troubled him to think she was one to give her favors to any man who tempted her with a coin or a smile. That made no sense at all, for he was hungry for a woman. It had been far too long since he had lost himself in the soft heat of a woman. All that should concern him was how much she might think she was worth.

He could already feel the silk of that thick, blood red hair against his skin. He ached to see those beautiful eyes, a strange blend of blue and green, turn hot and liquid with passion. Small, long-fingered hands were undoubtedly calloused and a little rough from work, but he was certain that her fair skin would be soft elsewhere and as sweet as the cream it resembled.

His body grew hot and hard as images of Murdina beneath him, naked and flushed with desire, filled his head. Gillanders tried to shake the images from his mind but was not surprised when he failed. Even in her ill-fitted gown he could see that she was all he desired. The faded wool could not hide the fullness of her breasts or the sweet, womanly curve of her hips. She also had height enough to offer him the delight of long legs, limbs perfect for wrapping around him as they sought their pleasure in each other.

She was trouble, Gillanders decided. The need she roused was too strong, clutched at him too swiftly, and was difficult to shake free of. It would be wise to stay away from her, but he knew he would not do so. Since the first time he had rolled about in the heather with the butcher’s daughter, a greedy, buxom wench who had gleefully rid him of his virginity, he had not known such a hunger for a woman. There had been a spark of interest in Murdina’s lovely eyes, and he knew he would not be able to resist the temptation to use it to draw her into his bed.

There was a soft rap at the door, and he heard her husky voice announcing that she had brought him his food. Gillanders glanced down at his near naked body and grinned. His desire was no longer blatantly visible through his braes, so he bid her to enter and waited.

Murdina entered the bedchamber and nearly dropped the tray she held. The man was as good as naked. It took all of her willpower not to slam the tray down on the table near the fireplace and bolt from the room. With what she prayed looked like calm disinterest, she walked to the table and set the tray down on it. It was not easy, for she could feel both his amusement and his interest in her as a woman.

It was an effort to keep her gaze firmly on the food she set out. She did not understand why she so badly wished to look at him. Despite being the only child of a very protective father, she was not a complete stranger to the sight of a man’s body, yet none had held more than a passing interest for her.

Then again, she mused ruefully, none of those men had been quite so fine to look at. She had been right about the long, lean, powerful lines of his body. There was no softness to the man, his strength clear to see beneath the taut skin, skin that held the light, golden tone much like one can get from the sun. That smooth, unmarred flesh made her palms actually itch with the need to touch him.

“Ah, just what I needed.”

That deep voice sounded right in her ear, his warm breath caressing the sensitive skin there. Murdina bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from squeaking in alarm. Her eyes widened as he reached around her, his strong, elegant hand picking up a thick chunk of cheese. She could feel the heat of his body all along her back. When the urge to lean back a little, to brush against his tall body struck her, Murdina grabbed the now empty tray and quickly sidestepped away from him. She fought against blushing when he looked at the tray she held up before her like a shield and quirked one dark brow at her. The amusement in his eyes made her want to hit him with the heavy wooden tray. They had not actually touched, but she had been close enough to catch the want that afflicted him, a desire for her that she found all too tempting.

“If that will be all, sir?” she asked, pleased with how calm and serious she sounded.

“I suppose it must be. For now.”

“Then I will leave ye to dine. Please send for me if ye need anything else.”

“Oh, I most certainly will. And my name is Gillanders.”

I did not run, Murdina told herself as she shut the door behind her and hurried back to the kitchen. I but left the room with swift efficiency. She was not surprised when a small part of her heartily scoffed, but she ignored the tiny mocking voice in her head.

The man affected her like the most potent of wines. She had heard such subtle flirtatious remarks before, as well as many that were not so subtle. Not one had made her insides clench with the temptation to reply in kind. His amusement tickled her anger to life, but everything else about him left her as breathless as some cow-eyed maiden with little sense of the danger she was in, a maid too foolish to see beyond a handsome face, playful words, and a fine, strong form. When he drew close his desire had warmed her, and she knew it would be a mistake to touch him, to open herself up to the full strength of such a feeling.

His name was Gillanders. It should be Dangerous. He should wear some marking to tell women to beware, she thought crossly. It would be best if she found as many ways as possible to avoid the man.

Murdina was so lost in her thoughts she almost walked into the laird. She stumbled to a halt and looked up at the tall Sir Ranald Dumfries. He was so thin she often wondered if the man was ill. What she was certain of, however, was that he was a man it would be wise to avoid. He made her skin crawl with the way his too pale eyes fixed on her. She did all she could not to even brush against the man.

“How is our guest?” he asked.

“Weel, m’laird. He has been given the water to wash away the dust of travel, and I have just taken him some food to tide him o’er until the evening meal is served.”

“Good. Keep a close eye on the mon.”

“M’laird?” She could not hide her uncertainty, wondering exactly what the man meant. There was a lot of lewd and violent behavior at Dunnantinny, but she had not seen that any of the maids were actually ordered to service anyone. Most were more than willing to do so without being asked. Murdina could think of no other reason the laird would ask her to watch Sir Baldwin, and she wondered what could happen to her if she refused.

“I wish for ye to tell me all he says or does. How he acts or any odd habits he might have. Do ye understand me?”

“Aye, m’laird,” she replied, praying he would not press her to openly swear that she would do as he asked.

“Good lass. And if ye cannae find me, tell all to Egan or Donald.”

The moment the laird was gone, Murdina softly muttered every curse she knew and then heartily wished she knew more. Her laird wished her to spy for him. If that was not appalling enough, he wanted her to keep a close eye on the very man she had just decided she would be wise to avoid as much as possible. Perhaps, she thought, it was past time to continue her search for her cousin.

Chapter Two

The door to Sir Gillanders Baldwin’s bedchamber loomed in front of her like the gaping maw of some huge dungeon. Nay, Murdina thought, a torture chamber where the weapons used to break her will were a fine, manly body, enticing words, beautiful eyes, and a beguiling smile. Each time she approached the room she found herself both reluctant and eager to cross the threshold.

She had been his maid for a week, and the only time she saw him fully clothed was when he was outside his bedchamber. The man had not one drop of modesty in his blood. It puzzled her that he spent so much time shirtless or wearing only his braes. The castle was not a warm place. Most everyone else dressed very warmly to fend off the chill and damp.

And every time she left his bedchamber the laird or one of his men appeared to ask questions about Sir Baldwin. Murdina could sense their frustration with her lack of any useful information. She could hardly tell them that the man was flaunting his beautiful, broad chest and making her heart pound and her hands itch to touch all that taut, golden skin. It had already been hinted that she should crawl into the man’s bed to try and gain whatever information they were so eager to learn. She was not about to let them know that she found Sir Gillanders very desirable. Nor could she ever explain that it was not just her virginity she was protecting by not getting intimate with any man, even one that she desired more every day.

Murdina took a deep breath and rapped on the door. The anticipation that heated her blood when he called out for her to enter irritated her. She was a grown woman and should be able to control such feelings. The man was playing some game of seduction with her, and she should have the strength to resist.

She stepped into the room, took one look at Sir Gillanders sprawled in his bed, and nearly ran right back out of the room. He was propped up against the pillows, that chest she so admired in full view all the way down to the edge of the fine linen sheet that barely covered his groin. One long leg was outside of that cover, begging to be admired.

That leg was worthy of admiration, she thought as she forced herself to move and put the tray down on the table by the bed. Long, well shaped, and sleekly muscular. The candlelight favored his skin, making its golden color almost glow with warmth. Murdina wondered a little crossly if the man was aware of that. Either he was so vain he thought he could pull her into his bed just by flaunting his body or she had somehow revealed her attraction to him and he believed it fair to try to tempt her into acting upon it.

And why were the candles lit? she wondered and glanced around. The heavy drapes were pulled close over the window, barring the daylight from entering the room. A fire burned in the hearth, making the room comfortably warm, and the day was not a cold one. It seemed a sad waste of candles when the sun would light the room very nicely. Consumed by that puzzle she was able to look at Sir Gillanders without being immediately distracted by his smile.

“Shall I open the drapes, sir?” she asked. “ ’Tis a fine, sunny day today.”

“Nay, leave them shut.” Gillanders saw her confusion and groped for a reason to keep the drapes closed that would ease her obvious suspicion. “I have eyes that are verra sensitive to the bright light the sun can cast. I will open them when it no longer shines right into the room.”

Although she had never heard of such an affliction, Murdina supposed it could be true. He did have eyes of a very unusual color. She realized she was staring into those beautiful eyes, her thoughts slowly clouding, and quickly turned her attention to pouring him a tankard full of the cool cider he preferred.

Gillanders watched her very closely. He could almost smell her attraction to him, and it fed his own. It pleased him that she was not one of those maids who readily tumbled into a man’s bed, but it also frustrated him. The need she stirred inside him refused to be placated by any other woman. There had been several women in the keep who had indicated that they would be more than willing to warm his bed, but he had no interest in them. That troubled him a little for, as his mother liked to say, the men in the Callan line did their best to live up to the randiness of the tomcat in their blood. The MacNachton half was not one to deny itself pleasure, either. Turning away a willing woman who met his meager qualifications of reasonably clean and comely was not his usual habit.

“So, tell me, Murdina, how do the laird and his men fare this fine morning?” he asked as he helped himself to the bowl of honey-sweetened porridge she held out to him.

“They have been up and at work for some time now, sir.”

“Ah, but I keep verra late hours. Sensitive eyes, aye?”

“Oh. Of course. They are just doing as they always do, but they have requested that I try and discover when ye might be ready to join them.”

“Soon.” He smiled at her. “I also suspect they wish ye to discover far more than that.” He nodded when she blushed. “Dinnae look so guilty, lass. Most lairds would do the same. Do I nay always ask ye questions, too?”

“Aye, and I do wish all of ye would just stop,” she snapped, and then grimaced. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Nay, dinnae apologize. Ye are being forced into the middle of a game not of your choosing. Just because such things are done all the time doesnae make it right.” He set aside his empty bowl and then studied her closely for a moment. “Most maids are weel accustomed to such games, but I am thinking ye have nay been a maid for verra long.”

She shook her head. “Nay, I grew up as the daughter of a blacksmith. Lost my parents to a fever and there was naught left in the village for me.”

“So ye came here to scrub floors or worse?”

“I came here because, when my father was dying, he said he had a brother in the village near here, and I sought my aunt and uncle. Sadly, they, too, are dead, but I have discovered that I have a cousin. I am seeking her now.”

“Ye think she may have come here?”

Murdina hesitated, but there was such honest curiosity on his face, and all her instincts told her that was all it was; she could find no sound reason to hold fast to her tale. “I dinnae think so, but this laird rules o’er the village where she lived. She had to flee the place because of fools who allowed superstition and lies to rule them. I had hoped some word of her could be found here but have discovered verra little. All I hear of her from the people here is the same vicious rot I heard from a wretched wee mon at the gravesides of my aunt and uncle. Now I but try to gather some coin to continue the hunt for her. I cannae blame Adeline for taking her wee bairn and running from this place, but I hope she can be found.”

Gillanders nearly choked on the cider he was drinking. “Adeline?”

“Aye. Adeline Dunbar. Do ye ken who she is?”

“The name seems familiar to me, but I may have just heard a few things said about her and that is what stirs a verra small twinge of recognition.”

Murdina sighed, the sudden loss of hope she had just experienced leaving her feeling weary to her very soul. “Ach, weel, I am sure I will find her soon enough, and a wee bit of coin in my pocket when I resume my search cannae hurt.” She had caught the brief sense of a lie, but it had come and gone so quickly she decided she had been mistaken, for he had no reason to lie about such a thing.

The sadness on her face struck him to the heart. Gillanders caught her by the arm and tugged her closer. The way she stared at him with a mix of fear and desire was all he needed to act upon his sudden desire to kiss the sadness from her face. He brushed his lips over hers, and she trembled. To his astonishment so did he.

He placed his hand at the back of her head and held her close as he teased at her mouth. A quick, sharp nip on her full, soft lips was enough to part them, and he took quick advantage. The only clear thought he had as he explored her mouth with his tongue was that he had never tasted anything as sweet.

Shock held Murdina still when he first touched his mouth to hers. Desire swept over her so swiftly she shook from the force of it, and she was unable to tell how much of it was from him and how much of it was her own. She did nothing to halt him when he deepened the kiss, the way his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth sending pure fire through her veins. It was not until the urge to crawl into the bed with him became so strong she actually reached for him that she began to come to her senses.

A little horrified at how quickly she had succumbed to his allure, she pulled away and stared at him. The warmth in his eyes nearly pulled her back to him. She quickly grabbed what little food remained on the tray, set it on the table, and fled the room. It was cowardly and graceless, but at that moment she did not care.

Once outside the room, the door separating her from the temptation of him, she paused to catch her breath. Her mother had warned her about the temptation of men and their kisses, but she had decided it was just the words of a woman deeply in love with her husband. The few kisses she had experienced had offered no temptation at all, the feelings she had gleaned from the men who had touched her only making it worse. Now she knew there had been some truth in her mother’s warnings. There was no cold calculation in his kiss, just desire, and even that shadow that lurked within him had done nothing to dim it or taint it when she had sensed it.

And what about his wound? she suddenly thought. Everyone had spoken of how he had been wounded in the sword practice late yesterday, yet she had seen no sign of it. Perhaps she should have given in to the urge to rush to his side when she had first heard about it, but Mistress McKee had then talked of how the man had walked away and shrugged aside any help. He had even declined having Murdina aid him in tending his wound or bring him the late night drink he always asked for. Her father had been the same when he had hurt himself from time to time, not wishing her or her mother to fuss over him, so she had stayed away. Yet, with even a small wound there should have been at least some sign of a bandage, and she had seen none at all. She had not even felt an echo of discomfort from an injury when she had been touching him. There was something very strange about that.

“Learn anything yet?”

Murdina looked up at Egan, the sight of his battered, homely face almost enough to cool her still heated blood, and she took a step back from him. Only once had she accidentally touched him, and she now made an effort to never do so again for the man’s emotions were all dark and twisted, making her stomach churn. She thought about his question and how to answer it. She could hardly tell him that she had learned that Sir Gillanders could lead a lass into sin with but a smile and make her enjoy the journey with but one kiss.

“Nay,” she finally said, unwilling to tell the man anything of interest even if she had anything to tell. “In truth, I dinnae ken what ye wish me to discover about the mon. He eats, sleeps, bathes, and keeps late hours. I fear that is all I have learned aside from what he prefers to eat.”

“And what does he prefer to eat?”

“Porridge sweetened with honey, cool cider, meat, bread, and cheese. He is also verra fond of apples, but they are nay at their best after a winter of storage.”

“He says naught about why he is here?”

“I dinnae think any mon of his ilk would discuss his business with a mere maid, sir.”

Egan scowled at her. “Ye have been in and out of his rooms for a sennight and that is all ye ken about the mon?”

She suddenly thought of how Sir Gillanders avoided the sun but decided that was not something Egan or anyone else needed to know. Having such sensitive eyes would be seen as a weakness, and no man liked others to learn that he had any weakness. Telling Egan about that carried the sour taste of a betrayal of trust. So would mention of how Sir Gillanders did not seem to be suffering from any wound.

“Aye, sir.”

“Weel, it may be time to send in another maid, one who kens how to sweeten a mon’s humor until his tongue runs freer.”

She watched him stride away and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from ordering him not to do that. The mere thought of one of the other maids taking her place made her heart hurt. Any one of the others would be climbing into Sir Gillanders’s bed so quickly she doubted he would have time to lift the covers for her.

“I hope he means that, for I would be fair pleased to be the mon’s maid.”

Murdina scowled at Jeanne as the maid paused by her side, carrying two slops buckets. “Egan has no say in such things. ’Tis Mistress McKee who decides who does what about here.” Jeanne stank of envy and a deep anger, and it was so strong, Murdina did not even have to touch the woman to feel it.

“Mistress McKee will do as she is told.”

As she watched Jeanne walk away, it took all of her willpower not to hit the woman over the head with the tray she still clutched in her hands. It was jealousy burning inside of her now. Murdina did not understand why she had such feelings concerning a man she had known only a sennight, one she saw only a few times a day. She knew she ought to get away from Dunnantinny before she did something very foolish, took a step she could never back away from, but she knew she would not do that either. At some time during the sennight in which Sir Gillanders had been spinning his playful web of seduction, she had become firmly caught.

She looked at the door and thought about going back in there to tell him he had to cease his games with her. Murdina actually took a step toward the door before good sense prevailed. If she went back in there right now while the heat of his kiss still warmed her mouth and her body, the very last thing she would be doing was telling him to leave her alone. The fact that she could touch him, could enjoy his kisses and feel nothing but desire despite her cursed gift made him a temptation almost too large to ignore. She needed time away from the man to try and regain her strength. The next time she stepped into that room she wanted to have enough willpower and sense to be able to look at him without remembering how skillfully the man could kiss. Or how much she had liked it.

Gillanders moved away from the door and began to wash up. He would make sure no one tried to send him a new maid. Murdina was not telling the laird or his men anything she had seen. She had not even mentioned anything about how he kept the room as dark as a tomb. It was a weakness he should not have allowed her to see, but the fact that she had not shared that with anyone pleased him. They may have told her to spy on him, but she was not obeying them.

He also wanted to get her in his arms again, he thought and grinned. Her kiss had been sweet if inexperienced. The way she had trembled in his arms, leaned into him as the kiss had deepened, and had flushed with desire made him eager to continue his seduction of her.

A pang of conscience struck him as he dressed. There was a very good chance she was a virgin. It was not exactly kind of him to work so hard to steal what was her only dowry. Gillanders also knew that pang of conscience would not stop him from trying to do just that. He had never wanted a woman more.

A woman who was the cousin of Adeline—the much-loved wife of his cousin. He grimaced and cast a rueful glance at the door. He should tell Murdina that he knew exactly where Adeline Dunbar was. Unfortunately, to do that, he would have to confess that he was not who he had told everyone he was. Murdina was holding fast to any information she had about him, but he doubted she could hide the truth if she knew it. Murdina was no practiced liar. Egan or the laird would be able to see that she held some truth about him back with but one look at her very readable face.

As he headed down to the great hall, Gillanders swore that he would not leave Dunnantinny without telling Murdina about her cousin. When the thought of leaving without Murdina herself at his side caused him a sharp pang of regret, he softly swore. A woman twining herself around his heart and mind was not a complication he needed right now.

One step into the great hall was enough to have Gillanders wishing he could turn around or, even better, go home. Mistress McKee obviously did her best to keep it clean, but the laird and his closest men-at-arms were pigs. Not surprisingly, all the others in the great hall followed their lead. The smell of unwashed bodies was also strong. And, while Gillanders was able to eat food, even enjoyed it despite its inability to give him all he needed to survive, Dunnantinny needed a better cook.

He obeyed the laird’s call for him to join his table and tried to hide his weariness with the game he played. Gillanders was not finding out what he needed to know and doubted he would. The laird was an uncivilized brute in many ways but he was canny. Too many pointed questions and the man would grow even more suspicious than he was now.

Gillanders sat down, looked at the overcooked, greasy meat set on his trencher, and inwardly sighed. It was time to go hunting, he thought, as he smiled at the young boy serving him. He was just not sure he could do so without being discovered, but he needed something to keep up his strength, and he was tired of relying on only the blood-enriched wine he had brought with him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Murdina slipping through the shadows at the far edge of the hall, heading toward the kitchens. She was a temptation he could not seem to resist. It was as if her allure and the one kiss they had shared had become a tether keeping him at Dunnantinny, at least until he could have more of her. He was either going to have to sate himself on her in his bed, or push her from his mind, if he ever wanted to get out of this place.

Then again, he mused with an inner smile, he could always take her with him. He had something she wanted, or rather, he knew where it was. The lure of family might just be enough to pull her along with him when he left. She did hold a strange allure for him, but he was well practiced in avoiding that. The ride to Cambrun would also be a lot more entertaining with her at his side. It was something he had to take some time to think about, without the fear that he might be getting tangled up too tightly with the woman. He shook her from his mind and concentrated on his host, still a little hopeful that the man would finally say something to make the long time spent at Dunnantinny worthwhile.

Chapter Three

The laird needed better spies, Gillanders thought as he stood upon the battlements, sipping mulled cider and watching the moonrise. He knew the laird and his men were Hunters, or worked with his clan’s enemy when the opportunity arose. He was also certain that they had the blood of his cousin Arailt on their hands, but even after nearly a fortnight of enduring the company of such men, he had yet to gather any proof of that. With each day that passed, there was less chance that he would gather that proof and an ever-growing chance that he could be the next MacNachton who never returned from a journey to this land.

It was time to leave. There could be no further business with Sir Ranald unless a swift meting out of justice was required. Gillanders wondered why he still lingered when even that small flicker of hope he had had over a sennight ago had faded. Then he cursed when his mind produced an image in response to his silent questioning of himself. Murdina Dunbar naked on his bed, her blood red hair a blanket beneath her fair, comely body, and her slim, strong arms open to receive him.

She was still why he lingered despite how all his instincts were shouting at him to leave. That both alarmed him and intrigued him. Gillanders knew it could just be because his lust for her was so strong, but he suspected it was more. The need to discover how much more, before his manly instinct to escape such a trap overtook him, was what held him at Dunnantinny.

“Enjoy the night, do ye?”

Gillanders sipped his mulled cider and looked at Egan as the man stepped up beside him. The laird’s two men, his right and left hands as Gillanders silently called them, had begun to shadow his every step. “ ’Tis a fine, clear night. Stars shining, the moonlight strong, the land quiet. Weel, at least it was quiet until now.”

Egan grunted, clenched his big hands into fists, and lightly pounded them on the top of the wall. “Aye, weel, I am thinking ye like the night a wee bit too much.”

“Truly? Ye are thinking?” Gillanders knew the man badly wanted to hit him. Could scent the fury Egan fought to control. “And why wouldnae anyone like the night? Think, if ye are still in a humor to do so, of all one can do in the night that brings naught but pleasure.”

“Wheesht, if ye talk of tupping, ye can do that any time ye want.”

“Ah, I see. Weel, some of us like to do a wee bit more than shove a lass against a wall, toss up her skirts, and grunt o’er her.”

“Ye seem to have healed verra quickly. I thought the wound I gave ye was more than a mere scratch.”

“I have always healed quickly, and it was nay so deep, just bled freely. Ye need nay fear that ye did me any serious harm.”

It did not surprise Gillanders to see suspicion darken the man’s eyes. People did not heal as swiftly as he had. It was a wondrous gift, but one that could not be hidden well if it happened around others. Even Murdina had looked at him strangely, undoubtedly wondering why there was little sign of a sword cut on his body after so short a time. Fortunately, he was certain she had not shared that knowledge with anyone else. It was yet another reason, however, why he knew his time at this keep had to come to an end soon.

“Why are ye here? Ye talk fine, but naught happens save that ye eat our food, drink our wine, and bed our maids.”

“I havenae bedded a single maid.”

“Ye havenae settled anything with the laird, either. Talk, talk, and more talk. Nay more than that. Ye said ye wished to treat with us, for your clan, that ye thought we might be able to do some business with each other. Dunnantinny could use some trade, e’en an alliance or two, but I dinnae see that happening.”

Gillanders turned to face Egan directly and said, “I dinnae think ’tis your place to see anything. I deal with the laird, nay one of his men.”

He spoke with all the cold haughtiness of a prince. Gillanders knew that tone would have had his cousins and siblings rolling about laughing heartily and flinging insults at his head, but it worked to silence Egan. From the look in the man’s eyes, it also worked to enrage him, and Gillanders wondered just how he might pay for that later.

“Then mayhap ye can try harder to make me see,” said the laird as he stepped out of the shadows.

Giving the laird a charming smile, Gillanders then took another drink of his mulled cider. It gave him a moment to consider the laird’s skill at creeping up on a man. The more he considered the matter, however, the less he believed that he had been that unaware of his surroundings. Either the laird had already been close at hand, this meeting and inquiry by Egan well planned, or the man was blessed with some unusual skills as a hunter. Gillanders briefly savored the thought of getting the laird alone and forcing the truth out of the man. He was sure that Sir Ranald had had something to do with Arailt’s murder, and torturing the man a little to get the truth would help ease his grief over the loss of a good man. It was increasingly hard to continue to play games with the man, especially when Gillanders knew his time at Dunnantinny was fast running out.

“A decision might be reached more easily if one kenned exactly what terms needed to be met,” Gillanders said, breaking the taut silence.

“Just as terms can be set more easily when one kens exactly what may be gained,” replied the laird.

“Agreed. Mayhap ’tis time we spent more time talking with more serious intent and less in playing the games of courtesy.”

Gillanders then spent an uncomfortable few minutes arranging times for the more detailed talks the laird was pressing for. It felt as if hours had passed until he was able to get away from the man, because Gillanders had no real trade to offer the laird nor did he have any intention of arranging a treaty with such men. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep talking to the laird without actually promising or agreeing to anything.

Seeing a woman lurking near his bedchamber door as he approached it, Gillanders enjoyed a brief flare of anticipation, only to have it rudely doused when he realized that it was not the woman he ached for. It was the maid Jeanne. The maid had already cornered him several times since his arrival at the keep, offering herself to him. Despite the ragged state of her gown she had obviously made an effort to clean herself up this time. The unsatisfied knot of lust he carried around like added weight still did not respond to her blatant invitation to make use of her fulsome body. That hunger could be satisfied by only one woman. Gillanders did not like it, but he was not one to ignore the truth.

“What are ye doing here, Jeanne?” he demanded, his cold voice offering no hint of welcome.

“I but wish to ken if ye are weel served, Sir Baldwin,” she replied, smiling as she sauntered closer to him.

“Has someone suggested that I am nay pleased with the maid I already have?”

Her smile faded a little. Gillanders knew she had finally sensed his utter lack of welcome despite the vast amount of bosom she revealed to him, the neckline of her gown tugged down as low as possible without actually baring her breasts for all to see. He suspected she was rarely refused and lacked the wit, or was too vain to realize that that had little to do with her charms. Many a man would bed her simply because he had an itch. Gillanders admitted to himself that he might have, too, if his body was not itching for one particular redheaded woman.

“She suits me weel, but I thank ye for your concern,” he said. “Best ye get back to the duties ye have now.”

Jeanne’s smile completely disappeared. She was not so comely when she was angry, he decided.

“Ye do ken that she has been told to inform our laird of all ye do and say, dinnae ye?”

“Aye, the poor lass, ordered to bore the men each and every day with the tedious details of how I eat, sleep, and wash.” He stepped back from her. “If ye think to tell me that ye wouldnae be ordered to do the same, ye would be a liar.”

“Jeanne! What are ye doing up here?” demanded Mistress McKee as she marched up and grabbed the younger woman by the arm. “I hope she hasnae been troubling ye, sir.”

“I was but asking Sir Baldwin if there was aught he needed,” said Jeanne, trying to look innocent and subservient and failing miserably.

“Aye, I suspicion ye were. Go back to your work.”

The venomous look Jeanne gave the woman before striding away should have left Mistress McKee trembling in fear, but the older woman was clearly made of steel, mused Gillanders. He hoped the woman did not think he had lured Jeanne to his chambers. Mistress McKee ran the keep, and he got the best of all that could be offered to a guest. She could easily make his stay vastly uncomfortable if she became disappointed in him.

“ ’Tis nay your fault, mistress,” he said. “Ye are but one woman and cannae be expected to ken everything the many people under your guidance are doing every minute of every day.”

“Thank ye, sir. It can be most trying at times. Have ye need of anything else ere ye retire for the night? I can find Murdina for ye.”

“I wouldnae mind a wee bit more of this fine mulled cider, mistress.”

“ ’Tis a fine drink to end the day. That it is. I will see to it.”

After she left, Gillanders entered his bedchamber. He stoked the fire, shed his shirt, and sprawled in one of the large chairs facing the fire. It had been four long days since he had kissed Murdina, but he could still taste the sweetness of her mouth. She had become very adept at staying out of his reach, however. This time she would not slip away from him so easily. If naught else, he was eager to see if her kiss tasted as sweet to him a second time.

Murdina scowled at the door. She had been about to go to sleep when Mistress McKee had dragged her out of bed to bring Sir Gillanders some mulled cider. Just because the man liked to stay awake half the night did not mean everyone did. She could not sleep until the middle of the day as he did. She rapped on the door, wishing she could tell him just what she thought of his calling for drink at a time when most of the keep was sleeping soundly.

When she entered the room and saw him seated before the fire, flaunting his fine, broad chest again, she almost rolled her eyes. Her heart still pounded and her palms still itched with the need to touch him, but she was becoming more accustomed to the sight. It was not something she would ever become tired of seeing, she mused, but it no longer made her react like some shy child. The fact that there was no sign of any sword cut after but a short time of healing did trouble her a little, but she easily shrugged it aside. The man could be blessed with a stout constitution, and the wound might not have been as serious as some had thought it to be.

She could feel his gaze on her as she hung the small pot of mulled cider over the fire so that the drink would keep warm and scent the room with its spices. After filling a tankard, she turned to hand it to him and tried not to let her annoyance be banished by his smile. The man was too handsome, too skilled at beguiling a lass for his own good, and he knew it.

When she held out the tankard to him, he took hold of it by firmly wrapping his hand around hers. Not wishing to spill hot cider over both of them, she tried to carefully slide her hand free, but he held fast to her as he raised the tankard to his mouth. Murdina struggled not to fall into his lap and ended up tucked firmly between his long legs. There was a glint of humor in his eyes that made her long to hit him, but everything else about him told her that he was going to try and steal another kiss, maybe more.

Murdina wanted to order him to release her, to end all his seductive games for she was not a woman who could be had so easily, but the words would not come. She began to suspect she could be. Everything about Sir Gillanders drew her to him despite all the very sensible lectures she gave herself. Even reminding herself that he saw her as no more than some maid he could use and then toss aside did nothing to dim her deep attraction to him. A wicked part of her was nearly begging to be used.

“ ’Tis a fine cider,” Gillanders said as he tugged her even closer until her nose nearly touched his. “The blend of spices near as perfect as any I have ever tasted. Have ye e’er had a drink of it?”

“Nay, sir, ’tis too rich for a maid to be offered it,” she said. “Now, sir, I would ask ye kindly that ye . . .”

“Let ye taste it? T’would be my pleasure.”

He kissed her just as she tensed to pull away from him, and immediately Murdina lost all urge to do so. The soft thud of the tankard’s being set down on the table by the chair caught her attention, but the thrust of his tongue into her mouth scattered her thoughts again. He tasted so good, and the lingering flavor of the mulled cider had little to do with it. Despite the voice of caution in her mind that warned her it would be a grave mistake to touch him, she did. The warmth of his smooth skin beneath her hands as she stroked the broad chest she had admired so often burned away what little control she had over her rising desire. She could feel his hunger for her, and it made her own yearning grow by leaps and bounds. The fact that such a man desired her was intoxicating.

It was his soft groan, one filled with desire and approval of her touch, that pulled her out of the passionate haze she had stumbled into. This was no dream. She was pressed against his body so tightly she could feel his hard length against her body, feel it pressed close to the very place that ached for it. The realization that she was thinking about rubbing herself against that hardness was enough to bring her to her senses. Murdina wondered why she did not feel better about herself as she pulled away from him.

“Nay, I told ye, sir, that I willnae be your plaything whilst ye stay here,” she snapped and, without taking her leave as she should, she ran out of the room.

It was a graceless retreat and, far worse in her mind, she knew she would not stay away. Her duties would bring her back into the reach of that temptation again and again until Sir Gillanders went away. While the sensible part of her said his leaving would be for the best, the part of her that was so fiercely drawn to the man ached with sorrow at the very thought of his going away. Murdina prayed that a good night’s rest would restore her good sense, but she feared her sleep, when it finally came, would be filled with the dreams of all she now craved. She had not only tasted a deep desire for the first time in her life, but she had tasted the depth of his for her as well, and that was certain to haunt her dreams for a very long time.

Gillanders cursed as he stood up, so hard with need that the mere act of standing hurt. It would be a long time before he could sleep. He had no doubt what he would be dreaming about, either, if he were blessed with any sleep at all. The hunger he ached with now would be tormenting him all night long.

He also had to deal with that touch of guilt for attempting to seduce a woman who was obviously a virgin. Gillanders could almost hear his mother’s tsk of disappointment in him. She paid little heed to the women the young men dallied with, only warning the men to be certain they left no child behind and unprotected, but she heartily disapproved of seducing the innocent. All of the men at Cambrun now heeded to warnings about being certain they left no child behind. No one liked to think of how many might have died because they had believed for so long that they could not have children. The discovery of the Lost Ones, people with MacNachton blood left to fend for themselves and too often being killed by superstitious fools, had been a hard lesson they had all taken to heart. Seducing the innocent was one lesson taught, however, that only some of them tried to heed.

The thought of the children they had lost and the ones they had found had Gillanders thinking of his own children yet to come. When the images in his head revealed a small girl with blood red hair and eyes a mix of blue and green, he cursed. It could be the result of his hunger for Murdina, but he had the sinking feeling that it was much, much more.

He was going to have to try and get her to travel to Cambrun with him and not just to meet her cousin. The more he thought of the way he wanted her, teased her, and thought of her all the time, the more he began to think she might be the gift that all MacNachton males wanted to receive. Murdina Dunbar could be his mate.

A mate who had not one tiny drop of MacNachton blood in her, he thought as he began to wash up before seeking his bed. He did not think she had anything different about her; she even seemed lacking in some of the strange gifts that made some women such perfect mates for the MacNachton men. Such gifts gave them the ability to accept what he and his kin were, what they had to do to survive. They had tasted the poison of the superstitious fears of others and also knew that there were things and people in this world who were different.

“Weel, she will have to learn,” he told himself as he crawled into bed. “Her cousin is married to one of us, and if she wishes to be with her own blood again, then she shall have to accept the family that kin has joined.”

Easier said than done, he thought. He would have to tread warily, easing her toward seeing the truth. Gentle steps were needed or she would run from him as fast as she could. The mere thought of how she might look upon him with horror when she found out the truth struck him with a deep, sharp pain in his heart, and he sighed with resignation. Murdina had already become more important to him than a woman who could give him some pleasure during his stay at Dunnantinny. The trip to Cambrun was going to be long and hazardous, and not just because some of the laird’s men might try to follow them. Every step he would be taking could well decide his future.

Chapter Four

“He is one of them, of that I have nay doubt.”

“Nor do I, Egan, but he gives us no proof of it at all,” grumbled Sir Ranald. “The mon makes my innards clench with anger every time he speaks, and I would enjoy cutting out his clever tongue, but I willnae declare him the one of the ones we seek until I am certain. I have no wish to be made a fool of because I acted too quickly and was wrong.”

Murdina paused near the door of the laird’s tiny ledger room. She had been ordered to bring the man some wine and had worried with every step toward the room that she would be punished for being too slow to obey the command. It was not her fault, but she knew men like Sir Ranald would not care about that. He was the sort of man who expected immediate obedience even if the one he had commanded had to crawl over broken glass to accomplish the chore. The only thing that had delayed her was the need to find Mistress McKee to let her into the room where the wine was kept, deep in the underbelly of the keep.

Curiosity about what the two men were saying stopped her now, all thought of possible punishment pushed aside. She knew they spoke of Sir Gillanders. He was the only one at the keep who could be said to have a clever tongue. He was also the only one she could think of who would inspire caution from Sir Ranald. If they needed proof of something from anyone else, she was certain they would just beat it out of the man. Or woman. Murdina had quickly seen that the men of Dunnantinny were not at all hesitant to raise a fist to a woman.

“The Dunbar lass isnae giving us much news of the bastard.”

“Nay, but I suspicion he gives her little to see or hear. Those MacNachton demons havenae survived for so long by being fools easily beguiled by some bonnie lass.”

“Many a clever laddie has fallen into trouble atween a pair of fine, white thighs,” said Egan.

“True enough.” The laird laughed, and Murdina shivered as the cold, raspy noise scratched at her ears. “But, I dinnae think he has e’en bedded her.”

“That is strange, is it nay? She is a fair piece and a fine armful for a mon.”

“True, but he might ken weel how easily he could reveal his true self to a lass sharing his bed. Ye are keeping a close watch upon all our people, aye?”

“Aye. He hasnae attacked anyone. If ’tis true that his ilk needs blood, he isnae taking it from our people.”

“The animals? Horses? Cows?”

“Nay them either. Cannae see any sign of it.”

“He should have sought some out after ye wounded him.”

“A wound I ken was deep, yet he suffered little trouble with it. It healed as if by magic.”

“Which should have been because he got some blood somewhere.”

“Are ye sure that is true? The blood drinking and all?” asked Egan.

“The Laird says it is,” Sir Ranald replied, his tone one of a man quoting the words of some great prophet. “He has been hunting the MacNachtons all his life, has seen proof of their fiendish ways and vile hungers with his own eyes. One of his men saw this mon and swears he is one of them. Aye, I doubted all The Laird said, but recalled that mon from the village, the one who bedded Anne Drummond, bred a little beast on her, and then tried to return to his clan. This mon has the same look, the verra same reluctance to face the light of day. He claims to be here to see if we will ally with him in trade or in war but says little about what he wants and why. I think we have played this game with him long enough.”

“So we kill him?” asked Egan, eagerness in his voice.

“Nay unless we must. The Laird wants the mon. The Laird searches for the secrets of the strengths and weaknesses of the MacNachtons. He needs live ones. So we secure the bastard and then send word to The Laird. He will let us ken when and where to send our sly demon.”

“Shall I take some men and see to that now?”

“We will give the mon one more night to play his games, fill him with wine, and then catch him in his sleep. Pick five strong men to help us.“

“Five?”

“If The Laird speaks true, we will need at least that many to secure our captive.”

“Jesu! What are these people? Six men to take down one? Is The Laird sane?”

“Verra sane. These are demons, Egan. Satan’s own. That mon who bred a wee demon on Anne Drummond killed four men with his bare hands. And his teeth. Ne’er forget that, Egan. He killed armed men with his teeth. He ripped the throats right out of the men. I have his skull. I saw the teeth. I have found two others as well, and so, aye, I believe him. They are naught but monsters. Animals in men’s skins.”

Murdina glanced at the wine she had brought and thought that Sir Ranald did not really need any more drink. To speak such nonsense he had to have had more than enough already. Quietly, she backed away from the door and then walked up to it making certain that the men in the room could hear her footsteps. She used the time to calm herself and to keep all knowledge of what she had just overheard from her face. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly to further calm herself, she rapped on the door, entering the room the moment after the laird called out to her. She almost stepped right back out, for the whole room smelled of fear, anger, and violence, all directed at a man she kept dreaming of kissing.

“Ye took long enough, woman,” snapped Sir Ranald as Murdina set the tray down on his writing table and poured a tankard of wine each for the laird and Egan.

“It took some time to find Mistress McKee and the key, m’laird,” she replied, deciding it did not hurt to at least try and explain her tardiness.

Sir Ranald grunted and took a long drink before asking, “Any news of our guest?”

“He is resting, m’laird,” she replied.

“Resting? ’Tis the middle of the day.”

“He keeps late hours, m’laird.” She shrugged. “He reads of a night, works on papers or letters, cleans his weapons, and such as that. If my father was called to tend to something that kept him working late, he, too, would rest during the day if his work allowed it. Mayhap Sir Baldwin keeps such hours when he is at home and thus has fallen into the habit of it all.”

She quickly stopped talking when she saw how closely both men eyed her. Either her tone or her words must have hinted that she was doing more than just babbling; she was stoutly defending Sir Gillanders. She had been, but that was the very last thing she wanted these two hard-eyed men to think. Murdina did not wish to lose her place as Sir Gillanders’s maid, nor did she want them to grow as suspicious of her as they were of him.

“So he avoids the heart of the day and thus the sun,” said Sir Ranald.

“ ’Tis difficult to rest beneath the harsh light of the sun, m’laird, but, aye, he does darken the room. I did question it once when he said he didnae wish me to open the drapes, but he explained his reasons for that.”

“Did he? And what did he say?”

“That his eyes are verra sensitive to the strong light of the day.” Murdina hoped Sir Gillanders would forgive her for revealing that, but she was compelled to try and ease the suspicions the laird held. “He does have eyes of a most unusual color. It wouldnae be so strange if they had such a weakness.”

“Nay, I suspicion it wouldnae be so strange for his eyes to have such trouble. Ye may go now.”

Accustomed to the laird’s abrupt dismissals and eager to get away before he thought of more questions to ask, Murdina strode out of the room. She considered lurking outside the door to see if she could hear more of their plans for Sir Gillanders, but shook the idea from her head. If the laird and Egan wished to continue their discussion, they would now check to be certain she was gone. As quickly as she could without actually running, Murdina went to the kitchens.

Her heart was thundering, stirred by all the wild thoughts running through her mind. She did not know what to do about all she had just heard. Sir Gillanders was in danger, yet should she risk her own life for a man she barely knew, a man who shamelessly taunted her with his beauty and kissed her without permission? A man who could take a sword thrust and healed from it as if touched by an angel? This was not her trouble. She was only a lowly maid who both the laird and Sir Gillanders had tried to use as a spy. Sir Gillanders was definitely playing some game with the laird.

But has he done anything he should die for? she asked herself. The answer was an immediate no. Sir Gillanders Baldwin, or whatever his true name was, might be a seducer, a man with neither morals nor humility, but he was certainly not the monster the laird thought he was. Murdina was certain she would have seen the demon in Sir Gillanders after so many days of serving him. She had touched evil before and knew its chill. Touching Gillanders had never given her the same feeling. With her gift, it would be very hard for a true demon to hide himself and all he was from her.

There was one thing that strongly roused her suspicions about the man. If he was the MacNachton Sir Ranald thought he was, why had he not told her anything about her cousin? The man by the graves of her aunt and uncle had been certain Adeline had left with a MacNachton. Sir Gillanders had to know something about her fate, yet he had said nothing, had acted as if he did not really know the woman. Perhaps he was hiding the fact that poor Adeline had been killed by his clansman.

After a moment’s thought, she sighed and shook her head at her own foolishness. She was allowing the fear and suspicion of Sir Ranald and Egan to affect her. Sir Gillanders could not speak of Adeline or admit to knowing who the woman was if he was truly a MacNachton. He was here under false colors for some reason, and telling her he knew about Adeline would rip aside the mask he hid behind.

“Murdina!”

She turned to face Mistress McKee, almost glad to be distracted from her thoughts. Sir Gillanders had one more night. She did not need to make a decision on what she should or should not tell him right this minute. Although she already knew she would warn him, she needed a little time to decide how much to tell him about what Sir Ranald believed. This would be her home for a while longer, and she needed to tread carefully or find herself tossed out.

“Aye, mistress?” Murdina moved out of the pantry where she had gone to idly sort the goods on the shelves and have some privacy to think.

“I need ye to go to the laird’s chambers.”

“Ye do?”

“Dinnae look so worried. The mon isnae in his chambers but has just ridden out to see if he can hunt down some venison for the table. I cannae do the cleaning there as I had planned to. My daughter is about to give birth, and I need to be with her.”

“Of course ye do, mistress. I wish her a safe and easy birthing.”

“Thank ye, lass. Ye are a good child. Now, ye dinnae have to scrub the place down. Just change his linens and clear some of the dust. Mayhap clean out the hearth if needed.”

Murdina agreed, fetched the things she would need to do the chore, and made her way to the laird’s bedchamber. Being a maid who was allowed into the upper chambers was a lot better than being given work in the kitchens or the laundry, she decided. The work was hard, but she worked alone most of the time and that suited her. Then she stepped into the laird’s bedchamber and grimaced. The room was soaked in the man’s anger and cruelty. She felt as if her skin was crawling with it. As she shut the door, she glanced toward the hearth to see if it needed cleaning and gaped. Three clean skulls were set upon the mantel.

Fighting back the urge to flee the room, she set down the bucket of water she had brought and cautiously approached the hearth. The closer she got, the more she saw that they were real, not some strange carvings. A shudder went through her as she wondered what the people had done to have their bodies treated with such disrespect. Taking a step closer she frowned, for there was something not right about the skulls. It took her a moment of staring hard at each one to realize that there was something wrong with the teeth. It looked as if the ones who had been killed had had fangs like some wolf.

She took a step back and then told herself not to be a fool. The ones who had lost these heads were long dead. Murdina was not sure why the skulls had such teeth, but they looked real enough. She was not prepared to think these were the heads of some demons, however. People were born all the time with some oddity, the same oddity running through entire families. Had her mother not told her that her gift was one that had been in her family for a very long time?

What the gruesome display did tell her was that Sir Gillanders was in grave danger. If this was how anyone with that strange style of teeth was treated, he was a dead man, for she had noted in passing during one of his heady kisses that he did have some very sharp teeth, ones that could be mistaken for fangs. The mere thought that his skull could soon be sitting on some man’s mantel made her stomach roll with horror. This barbarity decided her. She needed to warn him of the danger he was in as soon as possible and do so with great secrecy.

Murdina forced her gaze away from the skulls and hurried to clean the room. She was not sure she should tell Sir Gillanders about the skulls. If he was what the laird thought, a MacNachton, he might know who the heads could have belonged to. The news that these heads sat up on a mantel like some macabre decoration would only hurt him. Although she had not noticed that he had teeth as large as those displayed in the skulls, perhaps not every MacNachton got them, or it could be something that became apparent only after death, only when the skull was cleaned of all skin and muscle.

She quickly shook all thought of the skulls from her mind, sickened by the act of displaying such things as if they were prized plunder of some just war. It was a cruel, harsh world they all lived in, but she doubted many men would do such a thing even to their worst enemies. Now that she knew what Sir Ranald was truly capable of, she would have to be very careful when she went to warn Sir Gillanders. She would also have to do her best to make the man believe her when she told him he was in danger. It was going to hurt to send him away, but she could not bear the thought that he might stay and suffer the fate the three men whose heads sat upon the mantel had suffered.

It was not until she finished cleaning the hearth that she looked at the skulls again, each glance easing the horror she had felt upon first seeing them. Now she just felt pity for the men whose ends had to have been brutal, their bodies not allowed to rest in peace. One of these could be the man whose son her cousin had protected. From what she had heard the laird say, she knew for a fact that one of these men had done nothing worth being murdered for, his body then desecrated.

Clenching her hand into a fist so tight her nails dug into her palm, Murdina wondered if she should touch one of them. She had never touched the dead even though she had been sure that her gift would never work once a body’s soul had fled, yet, once, she had gotten a feeling from something not alive.

Murdina shivered with cold remembrance of the time when she was barely eight, had picked up the cooper’s hammer, and had known, without doubt, that he had killed his wife with it. Her father had heeded her and done well in keeping her away from the man until the truth came out in another way. Her mother had insisted that she should not fear touching everything, that she had seen the vision because there was so much strong emotion left within the hammer. That had been proven true, but it had taken her a very long time before she had dared touch anything with a naked hand. She wondered now if that would hold true for bone, if strong emotion could have sunk straight into the man’s bone and still linger.

“ ’Tis best to ken it now,” she whispered and, her hand shaking, reached out to touch the middle skull.

So many emotional images rushed through her mind that she became nauseous. One thing stood out within the chaos, however: the man’s love for his son. And his grief. The pain of knowing he would never see his child grow up to be a man, or be able to make sure he was safe and loved until he did. The wet heat of a tear running down her cheek pulled Murdina free of the hold of that memory, and she yanked her hand back.

“Oh, sir, I think ’tis your son my cousin cares for,” she whispered as she brushed the tears from her face. “She will care weel for him. And, although I dinnae ken exactly who ye are, I think your kin is here, and I will see that he doesnae join ye on this mantel.”

Murdina gathered the things she had brought to the room and the soiled linen from the bed, and hurried to get rid of it. As soon as that was done, and knowing no one would be looking for her until morning now, she slipped upstairs and hid in a small alcove at the end of the hall where Sir Gillanders’s bedchamber was. It was late before the keep grew so quiet she felt it safe to go to his door, and she began to fear it would grow too late to warn him. She rapped softly on the door, keeping a close eye out for anyone approaching. It swung open, and before she could say a word, she was yanked inside, the door shut and latched behind her.

Chapter Five

“Why are ye here?”

Murdina stared at Sir Gillanders. She had been right the first day she had seen him. That far too handsome face of his could look frighteningly predatory when he wanted it to. It astonished her that she was more fascinated than terrified. She also noticed that he was fully dressed in his bedchamber for the first time since she had become his maid.

“I have come to warn ye, Sir Gillanders,” she said, frowning when he began to back up toward the bed with her still held tight against him. “I am thinking it might be wise if ye leave this place.”

“Why would ye think that?”

There was a hint of suspicion darkening his fine eyes, although his hold on her was neither punishing nor painful, simply firm. That touch of suspicion stung, however. Murdina did not think she had done anything to deserve it. The man knew she had been told to watch him closely, something she had readily confessed to, and he had declared this a common practice at keeps. He had to know she had told the laird nothing of importance as well for, as far as she had seen, he had revealed very little about himself.

“Because I have just heard the laird and Egan talking about you,” she replied. “Weel, nay just heard. A wee while ago, as it took me some time to get here since I didnae want anyone to see me do so when ye hadnae called for me. They are certain ye are nay who ye say ye are and that ye are nay here to treaty with them or do trade with them.”

“Aye, I had gleaned that much but a short while ago.”

“Had ye now. Weel, did ye also glean that they think ye are something evil, some demon? They are even watching all of their people and animals to see if ye are drinking blood from them. They truly believe ye are some monster.”

Gillanders inwardly cursed. He was glad he had heeded his father and brought a goodly supply of blood-enriched wine with him. It had kept him from seeking some blood elsewhere after he had been wounded in that bout of swordplay with the laird’s men, men who did not appear to understand that practicing one’s skill with a sword usually meant you did not attempt to kill or maim your opponent. That the laird had kept a close watch on all sources of blood he might have sought confirmed Gillanders’s suspicion that the laird knew exactly who he was, might even have encouraged his men to wound him to test him in some way. Giving the man nothing to confirm those suspicions was obviously not enough anymore.

“A strange thing for them to accuse a mon of,” he murmured as he sat on the edge of the bed, forcing her to step between his legs.

“That is not all that is strange. They think ye are one of a clan named MacNachton and truly believe that ye are some demon. Called the whole clan demons, animals in men’s skins. And, Egan wished to kill ye right now.”

“I should like to see him try.”

Murdina ignored that bit of manly boasting. “The laird doesnae want that. He wants ye captured and held for someone he calls The Laird in awed tones. ’Tis strange that he would call another mon simply The Laird when he is one himself.”

“Mayhap he doesnae ken the mon’s name.” Gillanders wondered if she was aware of how easily and quickly he could have her sprawled beneath him on the bed, a place he had ached to have her since the first time he had seen her.

“That would be strange as weel since he means to hand ye over to the mon. He must ken something or he wouldnae be able to send word that he has something the mon wants. And it seems one of The Laird’s men lurks about here freely, for he is the one who recognized you and spoke to Sir Ranald about you. And why should this laird be so concerned with getting ye alive if he is an enemy of yours? ’Tis what Sir Ranald said, that The Laird wants any of your ilk one can find delivered to him alive so that he can discover the secrets of your strengths and weaknesses. Ye have a most powerful enemy, Sir Gillanders, and one who sounds most insane. From all I heard, ye dinnae want this strange laird to get his hands on you.”

“Nay, that is true enough. Yet, I might still find out what I came here to learn if I am careful.”

“What did ye really come here for?”

“To discover who murdered my cousin Arailt. He had a lover here, bred a son, and was slaughtered here as he tried to get to us so that we might help him protect his son.”

“Oh. Was his lover Anne Drummond?”

“Aye. They mentioned her, did they?”

She nodded, a chill snaking down her spine as she recalled all they had said. “Your cousin is the reason they intend to send six men to capture ye and take ye to the dungeon. Sir Ranald said the mon who was murdered killed four men with his bare hands and his teeth. Sir Ranald was told of it by this laird. He believes it for”—she grimaced and looked at him, unable to hide how much she wished she did not have to tell him all she had heard—“he has your cousin’s skull. He says he saw the teeth.”

Gillanders swore and prayed he might have the chance to make Sir Ranald pay for that desecration of his cousin’s body.

“Egan still questions The Laird’s sanity, and I think he is right to do so. Yet, for all that, there will still be six men coming after ye to take ye captive. Ye have but one more night to, as Sir Ranald says, play your games. For all I ken, they may weel have counted this night as that one more. So ye must see that ye have to leave this place as quickly as ye can.”

He was touched by her concern. The news that Arailt had put up a good fight and taken some of his killers down with him eased some of Gillanders’s grief over the loss of a good man, but none of his fury over the killing. The pleasure of that knowledge was somewhat dimmed by Murdina’s disbelief in all Sir Ranald had said. The fact that she did not believe what she had heard, undoubtedly thought Sir Ranald and Egan fools for heeding a strange man known only as The Laird, did not bode well for him. At the moment, however, it served him well, for her disbelief had helped to make her run to him with a timely warning.

“I had already begun to think it was time to leave,” he said, bringing her face closer to his and brushing his lips over her mouth. “Howbeit, I do thank ye for the warning.”

Murdina told herself to break free of his hold, but good sense had fled the moment his lips had touched hers. All she could think of was that he was going to leave, that the first man to ever stir a woman’s fire within her was about to go away. The thought of never seeing him again made her reckless and greedy. She had nothing in her life, not even family. It would be wonderful if, just for a little while, someone would make her feel wanted, cared for. She slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth more firmly against his, savoring the hot sweetness of his kiss and letting the heat of it flood her body.

Gillanders knew the moment she gave in to her desire. Her whole body softened against him, the faint stiffness of uncertainty fleeing her small, lush figure. He pushed her down onto the bed and deepened the kiss. Desire was a fire in his veins, an ache that loudly demanded to be satisfied.

As he stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, softly growling his approval when she began to respond to the caresses and thrusts of his tongue with some of her own, his mind cleared of all thought save that of feeling her flesh against his. He ran his hands over the soft curves of her body and then unlaced her gown as he kept her drugged with his kisses. Tugging her bodice down, he pressed a kiss between her breasts, fighting the need to immediately feast upon the plump, rose-tipped curves. He also had to fight the urge to nip at her long, slim throat, the sight and sound of the rapid pulse in the vein there clouding his mind with the dark hunger the MacNachtons were cursed with.

“Ah, lass, ye are beautiful.” He licked the hard tip of each breast, her soft gasp of pleasure music to his ears. “And ye taste as sweet as the finest honey.”

Murdina was briefly shocked when he covered the aching tip of her breast and sucked on it like a bairn, but a fierce desire brutally banished her hesitation. She thrust her fingers into his hair, the thick silk of it a soft caress on her hands, and held him close. The way he covered her breasts with kisses, strokes of his tongue, and the skillful touch of his hands soon had her squirming beneath him, her body eager for something more.

In a small, still sane part of her mind she was aware of him tugging up her skirts, but she did not stop him. It was not until he rubbed his hand against her woman’s flesh that shock dimmed a little of her pleasure. This was not what she had come here for. Yet, his touch and the way it made her burn caused her thoughts to scatter. It was not until she felt the hint of anger and cruelty invade the sweetness of her pleasure in his arms that her senses returned. She pushed at him, trying to get him to move off her.

“I think someone approaches your bedchamber,” she whispered when he frowned at her.

She was just thinking that his eyes were even more beautiful when darkened by a desire she had stirred within him when he leapt up, grabbed her by the arm, and silently urged her to get beneath the bed. From her hiding place she watched as he walked toward the door, reaching it just as a hard rap at it announced a visitor. Murdina was not surprised to see Egan, although it did shock her a little to realize that the man had such strong feelings toward Sir Gillanders she could sense them even before he reached the bedchamber door.

“Why do ye disturb my rest, sir?” Sir Gillanders asked in a voice that made Murdina shiver.

“I was wandering the hall and thought ye might wish to share a drink,” said Egan, holding up a jug of wine that Murdina strongly suspected had some dangerous herbs in it.

“Kind of ye to think of me, but, nay. I am still a wee bit weak from our swordplay the other day. It may have been an insignificant wound, but it bled freely, and I find I still tire easily.”

“Of course. Then I bid you a good rest, sir.”

Gillanders frowned at the door after he shut and bolted it. “Now why did he come to me, I wonder.”

As she crawled out from beneath the bed, Murdina asked, “Do ye think they ken that I might have heard their plans for ye and come to warn ye?”

“Nay. I think he but wished to see if I was armed whilst in my bedchamber. Mayhap e’en see just how late I remain awake.”

“They planned to make ye drink a lot of wine to be certain that ye went to sleep and slept deeply.”

“I did notice how readily they filled my tankard when we dined this evening, and now comes Egan with more. I think they must plan to make me insensible with drink ere they try to take me.”

“And they mean to try that tonight.”

“It would appear so.” He walked to the other side of the bed, picked up the bags he had packed, and set them on the bed.

“Oh. Ye were already planning to leave here.” She told herself it was foolish to feel so hurt, but that did not ease the pain that gripped her at the thought of his departure.

“I was. They played their games weel when we dined, but nay so weel that I didnae scent the threat. And I think ye ought to come with me.”

She blinked, stunned by the invitation, and not daring to take it as a promise that he cared for her. “Why should I do that? Do ye think I might be in danger, too?”

“ ’Tis possible as it willnae take them long to look to you as the one who warned me. But, also, I ken where your cousin is.”

“I had wondered when I began to think ye were nay Sir Baldwin but Sir MacNachton. She is with your clan?”

“She is. She has wed my cousin, and they raise Arailt’s wee son as their own.”

“Then she doesnae truly need me to join her. She begins a family of her own.”

Gillanders walked up to her, gently tugged her into his arms, and kissed the top of her head. “Ye are her only living kin just as she is yours. Of course she will want ye to come. And, when all is said and done, do ye have any other place ye can go?”

“Nay.” What she wanted was for him to say he wanted her to come with him, for himself, but she beat down the yearning. “Then I shall come. I but need to gather a few things.”

“Then hurry, lass. We need to be away from here as quickly as possible if we are to put distance between us and Sir Ranald’s men.”

“Ye think they will try to chase us down?”

“Aye. If all ye say he believes about me and mine, his awe of that laird, is true, he will wish to capture me ere I can get to Cambrun.”

“And how do we flee unseen from a crowded keep? Many are abed, but there are all the guards to worry about.”

“I ne’er stay anywhere without finding out exactly how to flee unseen if I must. Trust me in this, I ken exactly how to get out of here with nary a one seeing us leave.”

She nodded and stepped away from him. “I just wish I could pack my wee pony,” she mumbled as she started toward the door. “Poor beastie doesnae deserve the fate of being left in the hands of men like these.”

Gillanders stared at the door as it shut behind her. They would be taking her pony, but he would let her discover that later. It would not be as fast as a horse, but it would be better than one horse trying to travel a long way, perhaps at a fast pace at times, with two people and all their belongings packed on it.

He frowned as he thought on how she had known Egan approached before he himself had even heard the man’s steps. It was hard to believe she could have better hearing than a man like him with both Callan and MacNachton blood in his veins. Nor did he think she was a trap set by Sir Ranald. Yet, she should not have been able to tell that someone was approaching them as she had. It was something he was going to have to ask her about. There was a chance that little Murdina had a secret or two of her own.

Murdina shoved her meager belongings into a sack she had taken from the kitchen. She already had bread, cheese, and wine in there. It had been difficult to overcome the abhorrence of stealing, but she had done so, deciding that men like Sir Ranald did not deserve loyalty.

Her heart pounded with an uncomfortable mix of fear and excitement. She was about to mark herself as the one who had warned Sir Gillanders, the one who had helped the prize Sir Ranald sought to slip out of his grasp. When compared to that crime, a little theft was nothing. She would never be able to come back this way, however. She knew the laird had a long memory when it concerned people he believed had wronged him.

Some of her fear, and also the excitement she could not quell, came from the fact that she was about to embark on a journey with a man who made her blood heat with desire. Murdina knew they would become lovers once they were away from the keep. She also knew she ought to be alarmed by that, for she would be giving away her only dowry to a man who gave her no vows or love words. That did frighten her but not enough to make her turn away from it.

She could touch him. It all came down to that simple fact. She could put her hands on the man and feel only calm or desire. If he had any evil in him, it was well buried. Even the shadow she could sense beneath the calm, beneath things like loyalty, love for his clan, and honesty, carried no tinge of evil.

“Ah, Mother dear, your lass is about to become a fallen woman,” she whispered as she gazed upward to the ceiling. “I but pray that, if ye are watching, ye will understand and forgive. I can touch him, Mother. ’Tis such a wonder that I cannae turn from it. And, aye, I do believe I may be in love with the fool.”

She collected her things and walked toward the door of the tiny room she had been given once she had been given the chore of being a maid to an honored guest. The room was dark, cold, and often damp, little more than a niche in the wall with a thin door, but it had been hers alone for a short time. After being crowded in with all the other maids who did the lowest and dirtiest of the chores, it had been a pleasure to have the tiny space. She hoped there would be a tiny space for her somewhere at Cambrun.

“I begin my adventure now, Mother,” she whispered. “Please watch over me and Sir Gillanders. Even if he isnae the mon who will stay with me, he is still a good mon.”

She slipped out of her room and headed toward Sir Ranald’s bedchamber. There was one more thing she had to pack to take with them. This time she had no hesitation about the theft she was about to commit.

Chapter Six

Gillanders picked his pack up, tossed it back down on the bed, and resumed pacing his room. He had wavered between waiting a little longer for Murdina and simply leaving without her. It was easy to convince himself that a much needed stealth was the reason she was taking so long to return, but it was also easy to convince himself that she had changed her mind and was not going to ride to Cambrun with him. The latter possibility troubled him far more than he wanted to admit.

He finally sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at the door. If she did not appear soon, he would hunt her down. Murdina thought she had been unseen when she had come to warn him, but he was not so certain. Since she had no skill at stealth, had never been trained to it, she could have been seen but simply not known it. The reason she had not joined him yet could be because Sir Ranald or one of his men had caught her warning him or even caught her as she was trying to join him now. His stomach knotted at the thought of Murdina’s facing an angry Sir Ranald.

The sound of a soft footstep just outside his door brought him to his feet. He was standing at the side of the door, dagger in hand, as it was eased open. Murdina’s scent came to him first, but he remained tense until he was absolutely certain there was no one with her. The moment he was sure she was alone, he tugged her into the room and shut the door. Relieved that she was safe and with him again, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Murdina let the heat of his kiss melt away her fear, but before she sank beneath the fog of desire he could so easily rouse in her, she backed away from him. “We dinnae have time for that, I think.”

“Nay, true enough. A shame that.” He frowned when he realized she carried two sacks. “Do ye wish me to carry one of those? They look to be quite a burden.”

“Oh, nay. One contains what little I own and some food. And, the other? Weel, the laird is spending time with his mistress in the village as is his habit, ye ken. So, I went into his bedchamber and took the skulls,” she confessed, her voice slowly fading away to a whisper. “I wasnae sure what ye would do with them but, if they are your kin, I thought ye would at best wish them removed from Sir Ranald’s mantel. I think one may be of the cousin ye lost.”

“Why would ye think that? Because he was murdered near here?”

It was very tempting to tell him that she had merely guessed, as he suggested, but she fought against giving in to that cowardice. The man had a right to know the truth, even if it changed his mind about taking her with him. If he pushed her away now, at least she could slip back to her little bed. Once on the journey to Cambrun she could find herself deserted in the middle of a strange land. Murdina did not think he would do such a cruel thing, but she had never faced anyone squarely and told him the truth about her gift.

“I touched one.” She sighed when he looked at her in confusion. “I have always had a strong intuition about people. S’truth, ye are the first person I have willingly touched in many a year, aside from my own parents. When I touch a person I can feel a great deal about who they are, what they feel. Ye just feel calm but with a wee shadow behind it all. Sir Ranald feels angry and cruel. So does Egan.”

“And ye felt that when he approached. ’Tis how ye kenned he was coming to the room.”

“Aye. Once I did get a feeling from a hammer the cooper in my village used to beat his wife to death. So, I do all I can to touch no one and to touch very few things, especially things like daggers and swords. That has nay been easy to do in such a crowded keep.”

“Ye touched the skulls.”

Relaxing a little when she sensed no revulsion or fear in him, she nodded. “Just one. I got the feeling of deep grief, the grief of a mon who kenned he would ne’er see his son grow to be a mon nor be able to protect that child as he grew.”

“Did ye see who killed him?”

Murdina realized that Sir Gillanders was no stranger to such gifts, his calm as she spoke one of utter acceptance. “Nay. I dinnae truly see, I just feel. ’Tis true that, at times, it is as if I see something, but it comes from the emotion’s being verra, verra strong. ’Tis difficult to explain, but, with the hammer I spoke of, I could feel the woman’s pain and the cooper’s fury and hate.”

He nodded. “So it was nay so verra hard to ken just what he had done with that hammer.” He took the bag holding the skulls from her. “We will take this because, aye, I suspicion they are the skulls of my kinsmen, and they should be returned to Cambrun. Mayhap, when we reach my home, ye can touch them if it doesnae repel ye, and discover enough that we may ken exactly who has been returned home.”

“I can try but ’tis just the skulls. Are ye certain your clan will want them returned?”

“ ’Tis more than we have of them now. So, come, lass, ’tis time we left this cursed place.”

Stunned at how easily he accepted something she had hidden all her life, Murdina silently followed him. There was a chance the MacNachtons had more oddities in their blood than a tendency to grow very sharp teeth. If that was true, if some of his people had gifts such as she had, for once in her life she would be able to cease fearing that someone would discover what she could do and decry her as a witch.

Murdina forced herself to concentrate on following Sir Gillanders as carefully as she could and not getting caught. The man slipped from shadow to shadow with ease as he led her down into the bowels of the keep. He had not been boasting when he had claimed he already knew how to slip away without being seen. The bolt-hole he led her through was long, narrow, dark, and damp, but she caged her fear.

Once out of it and in the stables, she wondered how they could silently escape with his horse. That was not an animal one could easily hide in the shadows. Before she could ask, he had readied his horse and her sturdy pony, secured their belongings to the saddles, and was leading his mount toward the back of the large stables. She grabbed the reins of her pony and followed him.

“Another bolt-hole?” she whispered as he opened a thick wooden door to reveal a large, ironbound one.

“Sir Ranald obviously plans to flee on horseback if pressed to it. I wondered when I saw how the stables were built hard up against the curtain wall. It did take a while to be able to open both doors and the iron-gate though. On the outside is a steep hillside, difficult for an enemy to descend unseen by men on the walls, so this proved not to be the weakness I thought it to be. It is, however, a way to leave this place unseen with a mount to help us put a lot of miles between us and this cursed place ere we are discovered to be gone.”

It all worked just as he said it would, but the fear that they would be caught did not leave Murdina until they were several miles away. She could no longer see the keep, and there had been no outcry, so she began to believe that they had actually succeeded in escaping. It would be several hours yet before the laird left his mistress’s bed, returned to gather the six men he thought he needed to subdue and capture Sir Gillanders, and found only an empty bed. Murdina wished she knew exactly how much effort the man would exert to hunt them down. She rested her head against Gillanders’s broad back, closed her eyes, and prayed the laird simply accepted his loss and stayed at Dunnantinny.

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Gillanders found a place for them to rest for a few hours. One thing he had gained from his mother was far more tolerance for the sun than many another MacNachton. The height of the day was still dangerous, however. During those hours, especially if the sun shone brightly, he could be seriously weakened and would need blood to recover his strength. That was something he wished to avoid.

He nudged Murdina awake, smiling at the way she rubbed her eyes then blinked sleepily as she looked around. As soon as he dismounted he helped her off her pony and pretended not to notice how she winced. A blacksmith’s daughter might know a lot about horses, but he doubted she had ridden one very often. Her pony was probably one the family had had to pull a cart or help at the forge.

“A shieling?” she asked as she walked around in a small circle, attempting to ease the stiffness in her legs, and studied the small stone and thatch building.

“Enough shelter for us to rest for a wee while,” he said as he tended to their mounts. “Aye, and to allow our mounts to have a wee rest as well.”

“I am certain they are in need of one.” She paused next to her pony and scratched at his ears, earning an affectionate nudge from the animal.

“Do ye think we will be safe here?”

“Aye. For a few hours. Enough to have a bite to eat, a wash, and a rest.”

Gillanders spoke even as he walked into the shieling, and she quickly followed him. It was not until they had washed the dust of travel away, eaten a little, and prepared to take a rest that Murdina realized Gillanders was anticipating a great deal more than a rest. While she had cleared away what they had used to have their meager meal, he had set out their blankets. He had also stripped down to his braes and was now lying on the blanket, his arms crossed beneath his head, watching her closely. The desire he had for her was so clear and strong she could almost scent it in the air.

She hesitated only a moment before shedding her gown and slipping beneath the blanket they would use for a cover. He was the one she wanted. He was the only man she had ever been able to touch freely. In most people’s eyes it would seem wrong of her to want to give herself to him when he had not even offered a future together for them, but she did not care. The ability to touch him without being drowned in feelings of every sort was a blessing she could not ignore. This might be the only time she could learn just what could be shared between a man and a woman. If she ended up alone, it would hurt, but not as much as having missed this chance to know the things that had made her mother smile whenever the woman looked at Murdina’s father.

Gillanders turned on his side, wrapped an arm around her waist, and tugged her close. “I do heed a nay when ’tis said, lass.”

“I ken it,” she said, knowing she was blushing but trying to ignore it. “I find I am nay inclined to say it.”

“I cannae tell ye how much it pleases me to hear ye say so.”

He did not have to tell her, she could feel it. As he kissed her, his tongue stroking the inside of her mouth in a way that had her clinging to him, Murdina sensed his desire, and it fed her own. This would truly be a sharing, she thought, fighting not to tense with shyness as he rid her of her shift. The moment he pulled her back into his arms and their flesh touched for the first time, she ceased to worry about her decision. She was skin to skin with a man, and all she felt was desire, his and hers. She would be a fool to run from this.

Gillanders knew the moment she had shed all doubt, for her body nestled against his in a welcome that had his heart racing like that of some untried boy. He kissed her until that soft haze made her eyes the color of the sea and then began to kiss his way down to her breasts. As she stroked his back and arms, he could feel the faint roughness there, but the rest of her skin was as soft and sweet as he had thought it would be. He silently promised her that she would never have to suffer the roughness of hard work on her hands again.

The rose-colored tips of her breasts were hard and beckoning, and Gillanders feasted on them. He slid his hand down over her taut stomach and between her legs. She tensed a little but that faded as he caressed her. The damp welcome of her desire was quick to form, and he had to grit his teeth against the urge to thrust himself into her heat as quickly as possible. He eased a finger inside her, feeding that desire and readying her for his possession. By the time he slid a second finger into her heat, she was breathing heavily and arching to his touch. Gillanders wanted to kiss her there, to taste her passion, but beat down the need for she was a virgin. Some of the things a man and woman could enjoy in bed would be a little too frightening for one who had never had a man. He would save that pleasure for later.

Shaking a little from the strength of his own passion, Gillanders settled himself between her legs as he kissed her. Slowly he eased into her and met the proof of her innocence. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he thrust deep inside, breaking through the barrier, and swallowed her soft cry of pain with his kiss. Sweat trickled down his spine as he held himself still so that she could adjust to the invasion, but he doubted he could hold still for long. He prayed the loss of her innocence had not killed all of her desire.

Murdina held tight to Gillanders as she caught her breath. The pain of the loss of her maidenhead was rapidly fading, an ache for more replacing it. She curled her legs around his lean hips, and he groaned, pressing his face against her throat. Murdina almost smiled, for she could sense his need as well as how fiercely he was fighting to control it. She shifted her hips, pulling him deeper into her body, and shivered with the pleasure of it.

“Has the pain eased?” he asked in a voice made hoarse with the fight to remain still.

“Oh, aye,” she whispered, and kissed him.

A heartbeat later he began to move, and Murdina gasped from the ferocity of the desire that flooded her. She knew some of that was from him, but her own body was savoring the joining, reaching out for the joy he could give her. A strange tightness began to build low in her belly as she moved into a perfect rhythm with him. It was the bliss her mother had told her about when she had reached the age to notice men. Murdina reached for it, shifting her body so that he filled her completely with every thrust of his strong body. When that tightness snapped she was flooded with a joy that was tinged with a delectable pain and cried out his name. Even as she sank beneath the waves of pleasure washing over her, she heard him call out her name and felt the warmth of his seed flood her womb.

Still reeling from what they had shared, she barely moved as he fetched a cloth to wipe the signs of her lost innocence off of them both. When he returned to her side and pulled her into his arms, she nestled as close to him as she could, savoring the warmth of him, even his scent. She loved the man, of that she had no doubt. It was why she had been ready to take the risk and give away her innocence despite no words of love. It hurt a little that he had not filled her ears with promises of a future and words of love, but she shook that aside. She would win his love and, if she did not, she would still cherish what they had shared.

“I tried to nay hurt ye, lass,” began Gillanders, rubbing his cheek against her hair.

“Ye didnae. T’was but a wee sharp pain that quickly faded.”

“Good. Rest now. We still have a long journey ahead and one that might be fraught with danger.”

“Because ye believe Sir Ranald will be chasing us.”

“Aye. I must believe that so that I remain vigilant.” He briefly tilted her face up to his, brushed a kiss over her mouth, and then tucked her face up against his neck. “Sleep. Ye, too, will need to be rested enough to remain vigilant.”

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the way he ran his fingers up and down her back. There was a pleasure to be found in resting skin to skin with this man, all desire sated, and peace surrounding them. Danger might be on their heels but, for this moment, she intended to bask in the sense of peace and contentment he gave her.

Gillanders stared down at the woman in his arms. Despite her innocence she had gifted him with a passion he had never tasted before. He knew what that meant, just as he knew what the urge to mark her that had nearly overcome him as they made love meant. This woman was his mate.

No one was certain why it was so, but MacNachtons did not just marry; they mated. They marked that mate on the neck, the one bite wound that never healed. He ached to see his mark on her pretty neck. Gillanders sighed and had to admit that, if he was not already in love with her, he was very close to it. With most people that would be enough, but she did not know the truth about him yet. It was going to be even harder to tell her now, for the fear that she would turn from him now ran deep. The mere thought of it clutched at his heart.

When she moved her small hand over his heart, he fought against tensing. She was asleep, but he was obviously letting his feelings run so strong that she could sense them even as she slept. Perhaps her gift would be enough to make her more understanding of how different he was. He smiled briefly. It would certainly make her a wife one never lied to.

There was still time before he had to confront her with the truth. He had no doubt about her desire for him. Despite her innocence it had run as hot and wild as his. He would make sure she shared enough of that pleasure with him that it would aid him in getting her to stay with him. He wanted her to love him, but he would take what he could get in the beginning.

Chapter Seven

A fading, late-day sun shone through the trees and touched Murdina’s fair skin and long, red hair with a warmth that made Gillanders harden with need from one breath to the next. She was beautiful and passionate, her innocence no barrier to her desire for him. The fierce urge he had to put his mark on her long, slim neck every time they made love told him that she was his mate. One time he might have been able to shrug it aside, but it had happened again. It would be impossible to convince himself otherwise now. The way she looked at him and made love to him told him that, if she were not in love with him now, she soon would be. However, he still faced the problem any MacNachton did upon finding his mate outside the clan. How did he tell her about the need to taste her blood and mark her as his own?

He decided to wait until they were within reach of the gates of Cambrun. Her cousin was there, marked and mated. Adeline would help ease whatever fears Murdina might have about his clan and their ways. As he slipped beneath the blanket and tugged her into his arms, he dreaded the time he would have to tell her what he was, and dreaded it more with every mile they drew closer to his home. He had, at best, but one full night and day left to enjoy the peace they had found together, to savor her smiles and sweet loving, before he put it all to the test with the harsh truth of his existence.

The touch of her small hand on his chest banished his worry. Gillanders smiled when she opened her eyes to look at him, loving the soft, sleepy look that lingered there. She smiled back at him, and he knew they would be lingering a while longer beneath the shelter of the trees. He brushed a kiss over her mouth and felt the tips of her breasts harden against his chest.

“How fare ye, lass? Sore?” he asked as he kissed her throat.

Murdina could feel the heat of a blush stain her cheeks, and, staring at the hollow at the base of his throat, answered, “Nay, I am hale.”

“Good.”

She laughed when he pushed her onto her back, but her amusement faded when he kissed her, passion rising quickly to brush it aside. Yet again she could sense his desire for her. It fed her own, blending with it and enriching it. In this, the skill that she had seen as mostly a curse became the gift her mother had always called it.

Every stroke of his hands added to the heat of her passion. Murdina caressed him wherever she could, delighting in the smooth warmth of his skin. She stroked his broad shoulders and tangled her fingers in his hair as he kissed his way down her body. It was not until his broad shoulders pushed between her thighs that she became aware of where his kisses had been leading. Shock cooled some of the desire racing through her veins, but with only a few strokes of his tongue it faded away, and she opened herself to his intimate kisses.

Just as she began to call to him, desperate to have him inside her, he began to kiss his way back up her body. When his mouth possessed hers, she wrapped her body around his, silently urging him to join with her and end the aching need he had roused. She gasped with pleasure when he thrust inside of her, filling her, and clung tightly to him as he took them both to that sweet paradise only he could give her.

It was not until he eased away from her, their breathing having slowly returned to a more normal pace, that Murdina became all too acutely aware of just how intimate they had been this time. She could feel a fierce blush burning her cheeks as she looked at him. Just what did one say when a man gave her such a sinful pleasure, and was she wrong to have enjoyed it as much as she had?

Gillanders brushed a kiss over her forehead and idly began to untangle her hair by combing his fingers through it. “Dinnae look so worried, lass. I dinnae think we are about to be struck down by God.”

His irreverent words and amused tone had annoyance conquering her embarrassment. “Nay having the vast experience ye do in such matters, pardon me if I need a wee bit of time to accept certain things. I am verra new to this game,” she muttered.

“ ’Tis no game I play here, lass. Trust me in that.”

Before she could ask what he meant by that, he gave her a quick kiss, stood up, and began to don his clothes. Murdina took a moment to enjoy the sight of his long, lean body touched by the soft light of a setting sun. It astonished her that such a man desired her as he did. She just wished she was able to tell how deep that desire went and if there was more there than the simple lusting all men had for a willing woman who returned their desire.

She quickly shook away that thought, knowing her mind would prey on it until her head ached but give her no answers. In moments she had used a little water and a rag to wash up and donned her clothes. She dug into her sack for what she needed to clean her teeth and drank some of the cider Gillanders offered along with one of the last bits of bread.

“We may be able to get a few supplies in the next village,” Gillanders said as he moved to ready the horses. “If we make good time we should reach Cambrun at sunset on the day after the morrow, but I certainly dinnae wish to go that long without something to eat, and we shouldnae pause to hunt down our food. It could take too long.”

Murdina secured their rolled-up blankets to their saddles. “Ye still believe that Sir Ranald is hunting us?”

“I do. I think he will pursue us right to the base of the mountain Cambrun sits upon.” He mounted and then looked at her. “Ye dinnae think so?”

“Oh, aye, I do,” she replied as she mounted her pony. “I but pray that I am wrong. Yet, I can still hear how he spoke of the man he meant to send ye to. I think Sir Ranald would do most anything to win that mon’s good regard.”

Gillanders nodded in agreement and nudged his horse into motion, keeping the animal’s pace slow so that Murdina could ride alongside him on her stout, placid little pony. He had thought to ease her worry about pursuit with a pleasant little lie, but had decided against it. It could prove dangerous, for it would cause her to stop keeping such a close watch for their enemy.

Travel proved slow for the sky was not clear and clouds often robbed the night of the light from the moon. Gillanders tried to ease the tedious plodding along by encouraging her to speak of her family, but they soon both fell silent. It was not easy to keep a careful watch on the path they took and talk at the same time. He also began to feel guilty over the way he evaded her questions about Cambrun and his clan.

He was going to have to tell her the truth before the sun set again. Gillanders knew he could not take her right up to the gates of Cambrun without preparing her for all she would discover there, no matter how much he would like to. It had been a coward’s plan. He found he had far more sympathy than he had ever had before for the men who had struggled with the same problem when they had found themselves mated to an Outsider. Belief in such things as demons and a natural repugnance for creatures who saw one as food made it difficult to gain acceptance from any Outsider, and his clan had learned to accept that hard truth. It was impossible to accept, however, when that Outsider was the one you wished to mark as your mate.

“Gillanders!”

The urgency of her soft call drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked to find her staring at him in fear. “What is it, love?”

“I think they are near at hand. Sir Ranald and his men. They are close.”

He wanted to deny it, if only out of pride. It was galling that he had not seen or heard the threat, but he shrugged that foolish vanity aside. She had a gift, and it was proving its worth right now.

“Close?” he asked as he dismounted and unsheathed his sword.

“It feels as if they are all round us. Ye cannae mean to stand and fight. We should run.”

“If they are all round us, love, there is nowhere to run to. Dismount and stand with the horse. Go where the feelings ye are getting are nay so harsh and close.”

She did as he said, bowing to his better knowledge of such things, but her heart pounded with fear. It was hard to know how many men there were out there, creeping toward them through the thick trees, but it was more than one man could face. Murdina tried to calm her fear for him by reminding herself that Sir Ranald had said Gillanders was to be captured, not killed. Sir Ranald’s need to present a gift to the man he called The Laird could be what saved Gillanders, although she doubted she would be so lucky.

Her mind diverted by that thought, she began to plan how she might escape to get help for him if it looked as if he would be captured. His horse was strong, and she could tell by the look of the animal that it was also fast. Murdina decided she would mount the horse the moment it looked as if Gillanders was going to be captured. On her own she might be able to elude any pursuit until she could get to Cambrun and get help for him.

She was about to ask Gillanders if that was a good plan when the men broke through the trees and encircled him. They saw her, several glancing her way, but obviously considered her little threat and kept their full attention upon Gillanders. Murdina could not believe that he could face so many men and still hold that calm she could feel coming from him. The dark shadow she always sensed was a little stronger, but it was impossible to sense what it came from.

“So, ye are a cursed MacNachton just as I thought,” said Sir Ranald, standing with sword in hand but making sure his men were between him and Gillanders.

“Aye, and this is one skull ye willnae be decorating your bedchamber with,” said Gillanders.

“There are seven of us, fool,” said Egan.

“Aye, and it would grieve me to get that much blood on my hands, so I will give ye a chance to leave now, to turn away and return to your home and hearth.”

The men laughed, but Murdina shivered from a chill and that chill was coming from Gillanders. She looked at him and took a step back. His lovely amber eyes had changed to a more yellow shade. They looked like the eyes of a wolf. When he smiled, she glimpsed fangs and felt the first flicker of fear from Sir Ranald and his men.

The more she looked, the more the men with Sir Ranald edged toward Gillanders, the more Gillanders became different. His face changed to that of a pure predator, still beautiful, but now terrifying in that beauty. The hand that held the sword changed as well, his nails becoming more like claws, lengthening and thickening.

“The Laird wants him alive,” Sir Ranald said, making no move to join his men.

“I am nay dying for that mon,” said Egan as he charged Gillanders.

Murdina found herself trapped in a nightmare. Her fear for Gillanders faded the moment Egan’s head rolled across the clearing without her even seeing Gillanders swing the death stroke. She stumbled back as the dying Egan’s emotions slammed into her, adding to the fear she was already feeling from the men facing her lover.

Sir Ranald’s men charged Gillanders, but he leapt clear of them with a skill and grace no man should possess, appearing oblivious to the wounds that were inflicted upon his body. One man knocked Gillanders’s sword from his hand, but he quickly proved the weapon was unnecessary. With one swipe of his hand he gutted a man. With another he tore out a throat. Each man dying sent his last fierce emotions of fear, horror, and pain slamming into Murdina until she found herself backed up hard against a tree, still clinging tightly to the reins of their mounts. She released them, allowed the horses to back away from the blood and death filling the small, shaded clearing, and sank down onto the ground.

Gillanders had the last of Sir Ranald’s men by the throat and threw him against a tree. The snap of bones hurt her ears, but she was so consumed by the emotion battering her mind, heart, and body that she barely flinched. She wrapped her arms around her stomach as if to keep her churning innards from falling out, prayed she could cling to her sanity during this onslaught, and watched as Gillanders stopped Sir Ranald from fleeing.

“Who is The Laird?” Gillanders demanded.

“I dinnae ken!” Sir Ranald replied as he scratched helplessly at the hand around his throat. “I swear I dinnae ken. He ne’er tells anyone. I dinnae e’en think any of his men have seen him.”

“Yet ye all rush to do his bidding.”

“We fight demons.” His wide, terrified gaze flicked around at the bodies strewn upon the ground. “And ye are that, arenae ye. Ye are a demon.”

“Nay, ye fool. I am but a mon. Different, aye, but still but a mon, and if ye had let me just leave ye wouldnae be facing death.”

“I will keep your secret. I swear. I will say we ne’er found ye.”

“Is that what ye told my cousin ere he died?”

“I didnae kill him!”

“Nay, but I believe some of your men aided in the murder. And I think ye found others and killed them, which must have angered The Laird. Ye had three skulls on your mantel. Three of my kinsmen whose blood stains your hands, e’en if ye didnae do the actual killing. And I suspicion ye sent others to their deaths or torture at The Laird’s hands.”

“Nay! Nay!”

Even through the maelstrom of emotions tearing through her, Murdina could sense the man’s lies.

“Where is The Laird?” demanded Gillanders.

“I dinnae ken! His men come and take away any prisoners from those who get them. Or they arrange a place to take them to and someone collects them there. I cannae tell ye anything about the mon!”

“Then ye are of little use to me.”

Murdina almost fainted when Gillanders bent his head and bit into the laird’s throat. Sir Ranald’s fear and horror pounded against her already battered senses as the man she had made love to but hours ago drank his blood. Through Gillanders’s torn clothing, she could see the wounds he had suffered cease to bleed and begin to close. He was healing right before her eyes.

Murdina did not even have the strength to flinch when Gillanders lifted his head and with but one twist of his hand, snapped the laird’s neck. The laird’s last burst of emotion, tainted with his cruelty and anger, flooded her. She groaned from the force of it, the man’s final pain becoming her own.

Shaking, sweating, and rocking back and forth where she sat, Murdina watched as Gillanders checked all the men to be certain they were dead and even helped himself to what little of value they had. She remained seated when he walked out of the clearing, leaving her alone with the dead. A moment later she heard the sound of horses running and knew he had taken the time to free their animals.

A part of her wanted to run, but she was unable to move. Never had she suffered such a battering from the emotions of others. It was too much, too hard to control, and too dark. Murdina wanted to empty her belly but held it down, knowing she would not be able to move away from the mess once she was done. All she could do was wait until Gillanders returned.

When he did, she watched him cautiously approach her and could see nothing of the beast that had ended the lives of seven men. His eyes were again the color of warm amber and held a look of uncertainty that sat ill on his face. His fangs were gone, his face and hands clean of blood, and he had even changed his clothing so there was no blood on him. Yet over the image of the man whom she had let into her bed, was the one of the man who had just killed so many men, drank Sir Ranald’s blood, and healed before her very eyes.

The word demon whispered through her tortured mind, but she could not hold fast to it. Her heart refused to believe it even though her heart was being shredded by the death throes of so many men. Yet, Sir Gillanders MacNachton had not been honest with her. Murdina knew that, if she had the wit to think on that, could dig through the morass of others’ emotions that still rampaged through her, she would be hurt by that. She had to wonder if the torment she was now suffering was making her mad.

He reached for her, and she heard herself whimper and pressed herself against the tree. She could not bear any touch at the moment, could not tolerate even one more touch of another’s emotions or her heart would shatter. Perhaps even her mind. She sensed his hurt but, for the moment, was not concerned about how he felt.

Chapter Eight

“What are ye?”

Gillanders had never believed one’s heart could break; yet her words hit him like a mallet to the chest. He had to tightly clench his hand to stop himself from rubbing at his chest to ease the sudden, sharp pain her hoarsely whispered question had caused. It was not easy, but he sternly reminded himself that she was unaccustomed to the ways of the MacNachtons. She had grown up amongst Outsiders. To suddenly discover there were others in her world, ones so different from what she had always known, had to be a hard shock.

He sat down in front of her, trying not to be hurt by the way she pressed herself back against the tree she sat next to. It was impossible to do when he could see how desperately she wanted to keep a distance between them. Her fear was so strong he could almost smell it. He ached to take her into his arms and soothe that fear away but knew that she would run if he reached for her now.

“I am a MacNachton. Sir Gillanders MacNachton of Cambrun.”

“That isnae all.”

“Nay, I am a Callan as weel.” A brief flare of anger darkened her eyes, and he hoped it was a sign that her shock and fear were easing. “We MacNachtons are but a different breed of people. In some ways, so are the people of my mother’s clan, the Callans.”

“Different how? Those fangs?”

“Aye, all MacNachtons have them.”

“To drink blood?” Murdina had to swallow hard, afraid the frantic roiling in her belly would make her sick.

“Aye, to drink blood, although it has been many generations since we drank only from people. I am nay a Pureblood, one who carries only MacNachton blood. My father wed a Callan. Her clan has its secrets, too. ’Tis believed that an ancestor of theirs was some Druid priestess who could change into a cat. In both our clans are people who also have gifts like yours.”

Gifts like hers were no gifts at all, she thought, choking back a sob. None of the men who had died had been good men, but she had never wanted to feel the fear and pain they suffered as they died. Although she was no longer maddened by the sheer weight of it all, her skin still crawled with the remnants of it, and her stomach churned so badly she could feel the sting of bile in the back of her throat. The worst had been the horror each man experienced, as he had, at last, understood exactly what they had cornered. It had run so deep in each man’s mind and heart she could still taste it.

“We are an old race, and our ancestors are the ones who stirred up all the dark tales about us. They were a brutal lot of men, arrogant in their power. They were called Nightriders, for they would ride down from the mountain in the dark of night to raid villages for blood and women. That ended many years ago, and then our laird decided we needed to breed out what made us different from all around us. He was the son of an Outsider, one who carries no MacNachton blood, and the old laird knew it could help us, for he could abide some sun upon his skin.”

Her eyes were still glazed with that horror that struck him so deeply, but she was not shaking as badly as she had been, so he continued, hoping that his talking to her would continue to calm her. “We also were a barren clan. It had been over a generation since a child had been born and that one of an Outsider and my father. We had bred too much amongst ourselves and were slowly dying out. The laird wed a Callan woman and had twin sons. It was enough to tell the others he was right, to stir them to act and accept his plans to change what we were and more easily blend with Outsiders. It wasnae perfect, for the Callans do have many cat-like qualities, but his sons can also abide some sun. The dark hunger isnae as fierce in them, either.”

“The dark hunger?” she whispered. “Ye speak of the drinking of blood?”

He slowly nodded. “We begin to think we will never fully change into Outsiders. Whate’er created us is strong, the needs insistent, but more of us can hide what we are much better now. We also dinnae hunt down people like cattle. Most of the time we need nay more than animal blood, often mixed with wine. ’Tis only when we have been sickened by the sun or badly wounded that we need more, and then ’tis offered freely by the ones within the clan or taken from the enemy we defeat.”

“But ye nay drink down their souls.”

“Nay! We have ne’er been able to do such a thing.”

“ ’Tis what those men thought ye would do, what they feared.”

Gillanders nearly cursed aloud. She had felt everything the dying men had. It was a miracle she was not yet mad, her mind broken. He reached out to soothe her with a touch but she cringed, and his heart broke all over again. Taking a deep breath to ease the grip of that pain on his throat he tried to think of what else he could tell her.

“We have more of us now who can abide some sun,” he finally said. “The sunlight steals our life, draws it out slowly, weakening us so that we cannae even move to hide from the verra thing that is killing us. Purebloods cannae abide it at all. The stronger the MacNachton blood, the more dangerous it is to be out in the sunlight. I can abide all but the middle of the day when the sun is at its strongest.

“Finally there are the Lost Ones. These are the children, or descendants, of MacNachtons and Outsiders. I fear our ancestors, thinking they could nay breed a child, especially with one nay of our ilk, ne’er watched to see if any lass they bedded bore them a child. The moment we discovered the first one, a search was begun for others. To our sorrow we ken weel that many have died over the years. The ones we have found have all had a hard life, were constantly threatened, and became skilled in hiding. That threat is even greater now, for we have an enemy who hunts us. Someone learned of us and has the coin and the power to send men hunting us down. They, too, seek our Lost Ones.”

“The Laird.”

“Aye, although we cannae be certain he is the only one.”

“And the child my cousin Adeline took in is one of you.”

“Osgar is Arailt’s son, so, aye, he is one of ours. So is Adeline now, for she is Lachann’s woman.” He stood up and held out his hand.

Murdina did not take it. She knew that hurt him, could feel the stab of that pain, but she could not touch him. Not yet. So much of what the men he had killed had felt was still crawling through her veins that she feared his touch would be all that was needed to push her that last step toward madness. With one hand on the trunk of the tree, she pushed herself to her feet.

“Adeline still waits at Cambrun, Murdina,” he said. “I swear that ye will be in no danger there.”

“Then we had best resume our journey.”

“Aye, let us leave this place of death,” he murmured, and strode toward the horses.

Murdina slowly walked to her pony and mounted. She idly wondered if she was already mad, had broken beneath the onslaught of so many emotions. After watching Gillanders kill all those men, his eyes the yellow of a feral beast, his fangs stained with blood, it had to be madness that had her riding away with him. Despite all she was suffering, all she had seen him do, however, she could not see him as a threat to her life. She nudged her pony into motion and followed him away from the scene of battle, praying that she was not making the biggest, and perhaps the last, mistake of her life.

Gillanders watched Adeline escort her newfound cousin up the stairs to a room and sighed. The last of their journey had been trouble-free but a constant torment. She had spoken little and turned her back to him when they rested. All the warmth he had enjoyed in her smiles and her body was gone.

“She is the one, is she?” asked his father.

“Aye, but I fear she will ne’er come to me.” He told his father all that had happened as well as why it had affected Murdina far more than it would have anyone else.

“Wheesht, laddie, ye are fortunate she is still sane.”

“True. I but wish she would speak to me. Jesu, I but wish she would smile at me again. ’Tis as if she has gone all cold, pulling away from me even though she is right there before me.”

“Give her time, lad. Let her be soothed by the women and enjoy finding the last of her family for a wee while.”

“I will. It willnae be easy, but I will give her time.”

Jankyn was watching his son walk away when his wife walked up and slapped him on the back of the head. Laughing softly and rubbing the back of his head, he looked at her. “What was that for?”

“Ye just sent him in the wrong direction. He should be wooing that lass.”

As quickly as possible he told her all that had happened and why he had told his son to give Murdina some time to recover. “The lass is fortunately made of steel, for I can but wonder how she remained sane after that.”

“And thus will make a good mate for our son. But he shouldnae be leaving her alone too long. Once she calms from her ordeal, she will begin to wonder where he is and think too much on his absence from her side. I believe I shall fetch a soothing potion and take it to her for, if Gillanders stays away too long, someone will have to be able to convince her to go and hunt him down.”

Murdina sighed with pleasure as she drank the tankard of heavily spiced cider Gillanders’s mother served her. Finding out this young, vibrant woman was his mother had been quite a shock, too. There were obviously a few things about the MacNachtons he had neglected to tell her. No one had suggested that Efrica was a second or even third wife, so her claim to be Gillanders’s mother had to be the truth, yet Murdina found it so hard to believe she decided to just ignore the puzzle for now.

As the woman took the empty tankard away, Adeline gently pushed Murdina down onto her back on the bed and pulled the coverlet over her. “Best if ye rest, cousin.” She laughed. “ ’Tis wondrous to say that. I thought myself utterly alone. Weel, until I found my son and then my husband. Ye have the look of my father, too, which warms my heart.”

“I, too, thought myself alone.” Murdina briefly clasped Adeline’s hand, swallowing the urge to weep. “ ’Tis good to ken I have kin still.”

“And ye will have more once ye get o’er your journey and go fetch my son to your side,” said Efrica.

Murdina blushed. “I am nay sure he will wish to be fetched, and I am nay one of his people. And he is a knight whilst I am but the only child of a blacksmith.”

“Neither are we of his ilk, and your birth is of no concern.” Efrica sat on the side of the bed. “Nor are a few others like my sister, the laird’s wife. My husband told me what ye suffered, how that gift ye havenae yet told us about made ye feel all that those men felt as they died. But, they meant to kill ye. Ne’er forget that. Aye, they might have captured my son and sent him to this laird we cannae seem to find, but he would have died, probably after many long months of torture. I dinnae think the killing is what troubles ye when ye look at him, either.”

“Nay, but in a way he lied to me. I looked at what he could do, how he changed into a mon I didnae ken as he fought, and felt the sting of that lie. I am also nay sure if I can be the woman he needs, if he even wishes to keep me.”

“Oh, he wishes to keep ye. I saw how he watched ye as ye walked away with Adeline. As for being what he needs? Of course ye are or he wouldnae be looking at ye that way. Now, my husband in all his idiot male wisdom has told Gillanders to give ye time. Take it, but if he keeps away once ye are over all ye suffered, hunt him down. If ye love my lad, Murdina Dunbar, then ye will find a way to be all that he needs.” Efrica stood up and brushed down her skirts. “Rest. We can visit more later when ye wake and begin to recover your strength.”

After the woman was gone, Murdina looked at her cousin. “ ’Tis verra hard to believe that young, vibrant woman is Gillanders’s mother.”

“Ah, weel,” Adeline took Efrica’s place on the side of the bed, “these people dinnae age as Outsiders do. There is a lot I need to tell ye about the MacNachtons, Cousin. But I will say this now, as I can see that your eyes grow heavy with sleep. They are good men. If Gillanders has decided ye are his mate, ye will ne’er find a better mon to love. He will protect ye and any child ye bear with his verra life, love ye until your eyes cross, and be a true soul mate, the other half of you that ye didnae e’en ken was missing.”

“That would be nice. Yet, he didnae tell me who he really was before he . . .” She blushed as she realized what she was about to confess.

“Bedded ye?” Adeline laughed when Murdina blushed even more. “They are a hot-blooded lot these MacNachton men. Dinnae look so shamed. Ye are in love. ’Tis the way of it.”

“But I was in love with the other Gillanders, the one he pretended to be.”

“Nonsense. Gillanders was Gillanders. All he hid was that which this clan has always hidden. And ’tis worth their verra life if anyone discovers what they are. Ye hid what ye are until the last moment, aye?”

“Weel, aye, but ye would think he would tell me ere he bedded me.”

“He is a mon. He wanted ye, and since ye may weel be his mate, that wanting must have been fierce.”

Thinking of how his desire felt when he touched her, Murdina had to agree. “I dinnae ken what to think save that I think Efrica’s potion is beginning to dull what few wits I still had.”

“Exactly what it was meant to do. Ye need to rest. Murdina, just what is this gift ye have?”

“I can feel what others feel. One reason I was so drawn to Gillanders is because all I could feel from him was calm. A wee hint of a shadow, but mostly a wonderful calm. Oh, and his desire. I kenned that was true, for I felt it each time it rose in him. When he killed those men,” she added in a shaky whisper, “I felt all they did as they died.”

“Sweet Jesu. All of them?”

“Aye. All of them. They were afraid, in pain, and utterly horrified, for they believed he would drink down their souls. I cannae explain how it was when all of the emotion came to me, but I do think ’tis a near miracle that I am still sane.”

Adeline hugged her and then sat back while still clasping her hand. “It is. I am curious now. What do ye feel from me?”

“Happiness. Calm. Sympathy.”

“That is utterly astonishing.”

Adeline asked a few more questions but then left. Murdina closed her eyes. Her body was so soothed by Efrica’s potion that Murdina doubted she could move, but her mind was slow to find its rest. The shadows of what the dead men had felt still preyed upon her mind, casting up images of the way they had died. She knew it would be a while before she could banish those shadows.

Gillanders also came to mind, but that did not surprise her. He had occupied her thoughts a lot ever since she had first set eyes on him. Memories of their lovemaking were far better than the shadows of the dead men’s feelings, but they carried a hint of sadness with them. She needed to accept that he had not lied to her, that he had simply been what he was, a man who had a lot of secrets he had been trained to keep, if only for the sake of his clan.

She still wanted him, still loved him. For now she would rest, shed herself of all those dark shadows, and regain her strength just as Gillanders’s lovely mother had suggested. She would also learn all she could about the MacNachtons. It was clear to see that he had not yet told her everything. The knowledge of what she would share if she did stay with him would be important, for she realized she did not want to taste his pain again as she had when she had shied away from him after the battle.

The fact that she could hurt him like that actually made a flicker of hope rise in her heart. You could not hurt a man who cared no more for you than as a way to soothe his lusts. It was going to take a lot of courage but, if he did not come to speak to her, the moment she regained her strength, she would speak to him. Nothing could be settled until they talked. All she could do was pray that the talk would lead to his asking her to share his future.

Chapter Nine

“Where is Gillanders?” Murdina asked the far too beautiful Jankyn, still unsettled by how Gillanders’s father looked young enough to be his brother.

“Out in the stables,” the man replied, watching her so intently it made her uneasy even though she could feel no threat from him.

For two days she had seen little of Gillanders, mere glimpses of him as they passed in the great hall. He had been avoiding her as much as possible. When she recalled how she had reacted to the truth about what he was, Murdina was not surprised by that. Also, his father had told him to give her time, although she doubted the man had meant for Gillanders to utterly ignore her. She also thought that Gillanders was giving all she had suffered very little consideration. It hurt her to know she had hurt him, but seeing what he was in all its ferocious, bloody glory had been a terrible shock, especially when she had been so crippled by all the emotions she had been pummeled with.

“He plans to go ahunting for more Lost Ones,” Jankyn continued. “Could be gone for weeks.”

“Gone? For weeks? He ne’er said a word about that.”

“Weel, I suspicion he didnae wish to interrupt your getting to ken your cousin.”

Something about her reaction to the news that Gillanders was thinking of riding away and staying away for weeks was definitely amusing the man. She could not discover what it was, however, for she did not have the time. If she was to corner Gillanders for a long talk, she had to catch him quickly.

“Oh, aye, run away, will he?” she muttered to herself as she strode away. “Two days of hiding like a child expecting a scold just because I found the sight of him ripping out throats with his teeth a wee bit frightening. Wheesht, who wouldnae. But did he give me time to calm down a wee bit, to learn more about his clan? Nay, he hid. Weel, he cannae hide any more. I will tie the fool to a post until he talks to me.”

She heard laughter and knew Jankyn had listened to her rantings, but she was too angry to care. Refusing to run after any man, Murdina nevertheless walked to the stables as swiftly as she could. If she did not stop Gillanders from leaving, it would be a long time before they could talk as they needed to. She also feared how he would behave if he left still believing she could not tolerate what he was.

The moment she saw him, she hesitated. Murdina knew only that he desired her and that she could hurt him. It was not much to plan a future on or to risk her heart on. Adeline was certain Gillanders wanted her for far more than as a woman to warm his bed. Even his own mother thought so. Yet, it would still take a lot of courage to speak her heart to him on no more than those assumptions. Then she watched him make a final check of his saddle and knew she had to grasp that courage right now. If she let him leave, every instinct she had told her that it would be a long time before they could return to that idyllic time before she had seen what he was, if ever.

“Going somewhere?” she asked as she walked over and looked at him over the back of his horse.

“Out to hunt for Lost Ones,” he replied. “We all do it from time to time.”

Gillanders studied her face. He could see none of the fear or horror he had seen that day in the clearing. She was clear-eyed and apparently angry with him. Gillanders felt a faint stirring of hope, but refused to let it rise. Murdina might now accept what he and his clan were, but that did not mean she would now wish to bind herself to him for what could be a very long lifetime or to bear his children.

“Did ye nay think to tell me?” She heard the faint tremor in her voice and silently cursed, but the chill she felt from him was breaking her heart.

“Nay. I felt ye still needed time to overcome your revulsion.”

“It was nay revulsion,” she snapped, welcoming the anger that pushed aside her timidity and fear.

“I saw the horror on your face, Murdina. Aye, and your fear.”

“Of course ye did, but horror and fear are nay the same as revulsion. For sweet Mary’s sake, I had just seen ye kill seven men all by yourself, and only one of them fell to your sword. I didnae come from a place where all kenned your clan, where whispered tales of ye are common. When Sir Ranald and his men encircled us, I thought we were dead for certain, or captured and wishing we were, and then suddenly ye are leaping about higher than any mon should be able to, snarling, tossing men about as if they weighed naught, snapping necks, ripping out throats, and drinking blood. Ye showed me, in a fierce, blood-soaked way, that those teeth I thought naught but some small oddity amongst your clan were, in all truth, fangs. Then, as I looked at ye splattered with their blood, I actually saw all your wounds heal before my verra eyes!”

Gillanders grimaced. The way she described it, he could understand why she had been afraid. It lessened the sting of the memory of the horror on her face.

“And,” she continued, “did ye just forget what my cursed gift is? Mayhap what ye saw in my eyes was naught but what those men had filled me with when they died. I nearly broke apart from the weight of all their fear and pain.”

“Ye stayed away from me for the rest of the journey here,” he said, although he recognized the truth of what she said, one he had considered that very day but only briefly, while she had sat there trembling, pale, her eyes clouded with emotion.

“Which was but wee more than a day. It took nearly that long simply to shed enough of what those men had filled me with to think clearly.” She started to pace, the strength and turmoil of her feelings making it impossible to remain still. “I didnae ken who ye were anymore. All I could think of was that I had given my innocence to a stranger, a mon who hid himself so weel e’en I ne’er saw the truth. Oh, aye, I sensed a shadow within you, but nay more than that. Certainly nay e’en a tiny hint that ye could leap about like a cat or tear a mon open with your fingernails that became claws right before my eyes.”

She stopped and looked at him. “Once I fought through all the rest, I needed to think and get o’er my anger about that. Ye ne’er warned me, Gillanders. Nay once. One moment ye are the mon who likes to flaunt his chest and makes me blind with desire. The next ye are something else with claws and fangs. But, I didnae run, did I? I didnae flee your side. I still rode with ye to Cambrun, to a keep filled with more of your ilk. And all because ye swore I would be safe there.”

He nearly gaped at her. It was true, and he had been too busy nursing his hurt to see it. She had remained with him. Despite the distance she had put between them for the rest of the journey, despite that lingering glint of fear in her eyes, she had followed him to Cambrun, ridden right into what must have seemed to her like the lion’s den, just because he swore she would be safe. All he had needed to do was give her a little time to speak to the other women, to think over all that had happened, and to understand exactly what he was. Time to be rid of the vicious onslaught of others’ emotions she had suffered that day. He also should have talked to her more. He should have sought her out until her fears eased enough for her to listen to him, and helped her to overcome what had to have been a horrendous burden thrust upon her by her gift.

“I but needed a wee bit of time, Gillanders,” she said. “I grew up in a wee, quiet village, the cherished and weel protected daughter of the blacksmith. I have ne’er e’en seen men fight with swords. There was so much blood that day, men screaming, the stench of death all round me. . . .” She stuttered to a halt when he took her into his arms. “It was ye I was afraid of and yet I wasnae, if that makes any sense to ye at all.”

“It does.” He kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek against her hair. “I saw that look upon your face and believed myself condemned as the demon some call me.”

“Nay, I . . .”

“Saw the horror of battle, the cost of fighting for one’s life, and swallowed the fierce, terrible emotions of dying men.”

“Aye, but what troubled me most was that I felt ye had lied to me in some way.” She looked up at him and touched her fingers to his lips when he began to protest. “Lie is such a harsh word, I ken it. Ye but hid a truth. Have I nay done the same for most of my life? It took me a while to accept that ye did nay more than I did.”

“Ye told me the truth ere ye joined me on the journey to Cambrun. I meant to tell ye my truths as weel. I planned to do so ere ye rode through the gates of Cambrun. If I were a good mon, I would have told ye the truth ere we shared a bed, but I wanted ye too badly to risk ye running away from me.”

“Oh, I have ne’er questioned your desire for me.”

He grinned. “So ye ken it rises anew?”

She did and, as always, it stirred her own, quickly and fiercely. “I do.” She pressed her cheek against his chest, enjoying the sound of the strong beat of his heart. “It awakens my own and strengthens it.”

Gillanders put his hand beneath her chin and turned her face up to his. “Did Adeline tell ye of the marking?” He knew that if he made love to her now he would not be able to stop himself from marking her as his own.

Murdina blushed, silently cursing herself for how easily her fair skin did that. “Aye. She said it didnae hurt. She also said ’tis the mark a MacNachton gives his mate.” She tensed, praying that he was speaking of the mark because he intended to mark her, to claim her as his true mate.

“I have ached to give ye one since the first time we made love.”

“Are ye certain?”

“Verra certain. I love ye, Murdina Dunbar. I suspected I was caught from the first time I looked into those beautiful eyes of yours. The only thing in doubt is whether ye feel the same.”

“Oh, aye, I do. I love ye.” She gave herself over to his hungry kiss, enjoying the ferocity of it and returning some of her own. “I suspected it when I could touch ye and feel only calm,” she said when he ended the kiss. “E’en when ye suffered from some less kindly emotions, they didnae trouble me as those of others do. Beneath it all I could still feel that calm.”

Gillanders knew he could wait no longer to mark her as his own. He swiftly unsaddled his mount, returned the animal to its stall, and then grabbed Murdina by the hand. It was not until he heard her laugh that he realized he was nearly running to the keep. He slowed his pace but not by much, ignoring everyone they passed as he dragged her to his bedchamber.

Murdina did not think clothes had ever been shed as fast as theirs were once they were inside his bedchamber, the door latched securely behind them. When he took her into his arms and tumbled them down onto the bed, their flesh meeting for the first time in far too long, she did not think she could endure it if he spent too much time with kissing and stroking her. She wanted him inside her now, needed him to ease an ache that had been gnawing at her for days. Threading her fingers through his hair as he teased her breasts with strokes of his tongue and soft kisses, she knew she would not be able to play this game for long before she demanded what she needed.

“Love, I dinnae think I have the patience this time,” Gillanders said as he covered her face with kisses. “I need ye now, need to make ye truly mine.”

“I find I am in nay mood to play, either,” she whispered against his ear and then lightly nipped at the lobe.

“Sweet Jesu, I dinnae think I have e’er heard sweeter words.”

Her soft laugh turned into a gasp of pleasure as he thrust inside of her. Her body welcomed him greedily. Murdina held him close as he moved, each stroke deep within her sending her passion climbing higher until she trembled from the force of it. A tightness low in her belly increased until she knew she was close to tumbling into the bliss he could give her. There was a quick, sharp pain in her neck and she fell, crying out his name as pleasure swept over her in waves. A small, still sane part of her heard him cry out her name as he joined her in that fall.

It was not until she felt a cool, damp cloth bathe her between her legs that Murdina became aware of her surroundings once again. She opened her eyes as Gillanders walked away to rinse out the cloth he had used on her and quickly bathe himself. He was a beautiful sight to behold, she thought a little besottedly, as he walked back to the bed and slipped in beside her. She murmured with pleasure when he took her into his arms, holding her close and running his fingers through her hair.

“ ’Tis done now, love,” he said. “Everyone at Cambrun will ken that ye are mine now.”

She frowned and touched her neck, surprised by the feel of a small mark upon her skin.” ’Tis a scar already?”

“Aye. When we bite someone, if we lick at the wound afterward, it will heal. We dinnae ken why, but when we bite the woman we have chosen as ours, when we have fully accepted that she is our mate, that mark doesnae fade away as all the others do. If ye allow me to have a wee sip of ye now and then, those marks will fade ere we catch our breath.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead.

“Catch our breath?”

“Weel, unless ’tis done for some dire need, most time ’tis done with one’s mate as part of the loving.”

“Ah, I see. Since I barely noticed it when ye did it this time, I cannae see that I shall object. All it did was make the pleasure e’en fiercer,” she whispered.

“That it does, but we dinnae do it often. It wouldnae do to take too much blood, and the pleasure can be the sort to make ye want it too often if ye are nay careful.”

For a moment she simply enjoyed being held in his arms, savoring the knowledge that this man loved her. Murdina could feel it, knew it would always comfort her. It was a very strange life she would be living now, but she found only happiness in her heart. She had all she could ever want, but there was still one small shadow on that happiness.

“Adeline told me that ye all live for a long time, that your ability to heal so quickly adds many years to your lives,” she said. “I dinnae have that ability, Gillanders.”

“Ye will.” He pulled back a little and smiled at her. “We have discovered that that gift of a long life can be shared. Ye have seen my parents, aye?”

“Aye, your mother was good to come and speak with me several times.” She did not think he needed to know that most of that was to encourage her to hunt down her son and make him mark her.

“My mother is four and fifty years old, and my father is eight and seventy.”

“Nay.”

“Aye, and dinnae look so horrified. My aunt has discovered that, if an Outsider drinks some of our blood, it works in them as it does in us by healing wounds and keeping old age away from the door.”

She frowned, not completely sure she could stomach drinking blood, but then certain she could overcome any hesitation if it meant she could remain at his side for many years to come. “But, I dinnae have fangs.”

“Ye dinnae need them. I can make a wound if ye can abide drinking from me now and then, or ye can drink the potion Aunt Bridgit has made, one so full of rich wine and spices ye cannae taste the blood in it.”

“Oh. Weel, that will do,” she said, and was rewarded with a kiss that had her passion raising its sated head. But, a chilling thought suddenly occurred to her as he kissed her throat, and she pulled away to look at him. “The Laird kens that, doesnae he.”

“We think he might, or will verra soon if we dinnae find him and kill him.” He pulled her back into his arms. “ ’Tis a dangerous time for us, but ye will be safe here.”

“It wasnae my safety I feared for.”

“Ye have seen that I am nay without skill in battle, my love. And our laird rarely asks the mated males to go out ahunting, for the loss of a mate is a verra hard thing for a MacNachton to bear, e’en one who has only wed into the clan. Be at ease. Dinnae allow the fears of what might happen to shadow all we can share.”

“I love ye, Gillanders,” she whispered, brushing a kiss over his mouth.

“And I love ye, Murdina MacNachton.”

“Do I get a wedding?” she teased.

“Aye, and since one of the people who hailed us as I rushed ye up here like a fool blinded with his own need was my mother”—he laughed when she blushed—“I suspicion she has already begun the planning of it.”

“I shall ne’er get used to how all in a keep seem to ken everyone’s business.”

“Aye, ye will, for this is nay like Dunnantinny. This is now your home and your family. We shall have us a fine life together.”

“Even if it proves to be a verra long one? Can ye love the same lass for a hundred years?”

“Easily. For that long and far longer.”

HIGHLAND VAMPIRE

Diana Cosby

This book is dedicated to Eric, Stephanie, and Christopher, my amazing children, who are truly blessings in my life. I want to thank each of you for being who you are, and for your service to our country. I’m proud to be your mom. God bless. I love each of you so much. *Hugs*

Acknowledgments

I am truly thankful for the immense support from my parents, family, and friends. My deepest wish is that everyone is as blessed when they pursue their dreams.

My sincere thanks and humble gratitude to my editors, Alicia Condon and Megan Records; my agent, Holly Root; my critique partners, Shirley Rogerson, Mary Forbes, and Michelle Hancock. Your hard work has helped make the magic of this story come true. A huge thanks as well to Joseph Hasson for brainstorming Highland Vampire with me and allowing the magic of this story to breathe life. A special thanks to Sulay Hernandez for believing in me from the start.

And, thanks to the Roving Lunatics (Mary Beth Shortt and Sandra Hughes) and the Wild Writers for their friendship as continued amazing support!

Chapter One

July 1297
Medieval Scotland

Enter the stone circle.

At the deep burr echoing in her mind, Rowan Campbell whirled. Against the cast of moonlight, she peered between the massive towers of stone encircling a swath of land.

Naked, a lone man lay sprawled on his back within the circle. Black hair was strewn over well-muscled shoulders, the firm slide of skin angling to a taut, lean body, a body designed for war.

Had he spoken to her mind? Impossible.

Long moments passed.

The warrior remained still.

Had he been injured in battle? Or were the men who’d labeled her a witch responsible for his fate? On a shaky breath, Rowan searched the nearby forest for any sign of movement.

Not a breeze stirred or a stick cracked beneath the cloak of the night. ’Twas as if the world had stopped. Nay, stilled, as if under the sway of a greater force.

The air began to pulse with raw, primal energy. Expectancy curled around her, seeped into her pores. Beneath the silvery cascade of the fading moonlight, the man’s body began to shimmer.

Terrified, she stumbled back.

No. Come closer.

Rowan whirled, scoured the night-blacked trees arching toward the sky with ominous intent.

No one.

She’d heard naught but her overactive imagination. Imagination? Nay, being branded a witch and on the run for a sennight would leave the stoutest man on edge. Exhaustion and fear fed her mind.

But neither mattered. If she didn’t escape from the Highlands, she would be caught and burned upon a stake. On a sigh she studied the heavens.

Red ribbons of light streaked the sky like blood, announcing the oncoming dawn.

Weariness weighed upon her like a sodden gown. However much she wished to rest, with danger about, she could not tarry. Rowan tried to turn, but sensation halted her, then tugged her forward. Panic threatened, and she tried to step back.

The force dragged her closer to the timeworn stones erected centuries ago. Columns, Highlanders whispered, that held immense power.

“Release me!” Her cry echoed into the night. Merciful Mary, she was on the run. With her pursuers nearby, only a fool would call for help!

She struggled against the pull, but with her next step, her foot settled inside the circle of stones. Like a curtain drawn, the air around her grew thick, the silence rich. When she stood in front of the stranger, her body halted. Fighting for calm, she stared at the formidable man.

Morning rays continued to seep into the sky, its growing brightness silhouetting the warrior’s figure. The paleness of his face surprised her, but the hard slant of his cheeks drew her gaze to his mouth, to lips pressed together in pain.

You must aid me to the cave nearby.

She turned to find who’d spoken.

Trees swayed in the breeze, a hawk flew in the distance, but she found no sign of another person.

This was crazy. Rowan tried to step back, but a force dragged her to her knees, drew her hands to encircle the intimidating stranger’s waist. As her fingers skimmed across muscled flesh, a jolt rocked her, awareness so deep it shook her to her core.

No, she didn’t want to do this! She fought against the compulsion, but her arms lifted him.

Without warning, his legs pushed with her. Then he stood at her side.

I must lean upon you.

Rowan refused to think, to analyze the strangeness of this moment. ’Twas a nightmare, one she prayed she’d awaken from posthaste.

Shafts of sunlight slid over the horizon, and the heat within the stone circle swelled.

Move!

At his low growl, Rowan hurried forward, amazed that even though his face was contorted in agony, he kept pace. They navigated through the break within the stones, and the air around them cleared.

Unsure, she hesitated.

To the cave!

At his harsh command, Rowan guided the dangerous-looking man forward, his weight as he leaned upon her increasing with each step. If he passed out, she could never lift him. What was she thinking? If he passed out she could escape!

Paces away from the blackened entrance, his breath left him in a hiss, and the stench of burning flesh permeated the air.

Rowan glanced over, stilled. Beneath the sun’s newborn rays, slices of red clawed the stranger’s shoulder, more pale flesh becoming scorched with each passing moment. God in heaven, what was going on?

On an oath, he jerked her against him, lunged toward the cave. They landed hard, but he kept her protected within his arms.

Her body caged against his, Rowan struggled to break free. “Release me!”

The stranger remained still, his chest unmoving, not a flicker of emotion upon his face.

Frantic, she shoved against his chest.

He budged a hand’s width.

Heart racing, she pushed on his injured shoulder; he collapsed onto his side, his moan, low and chilling, echoing through the cavern.

Fear collided with her urge to heal. Ever since she was a child, she’d been skilled in helping others. This man’s skin was ice. More, he’d not attacked her but had collapsed atop her from pain.

In the glow of morning light illuminating the land beyond the cave, she caught the pallor of his face, his teeth clenched in pain. Guilt tamped down her nerves. How could he harm her? He could nae move.

Many questions lay unanswered about who he was and how he had ended up naked and near dead within the stone circle, but she needed to focus on tending to him, not on her fear.

With a final tug, Rowan pulled herself free, the honed curve of his backside drawing her to look, appreciate his very male, very muscular form. His pale skin accented the hard angles of his body, highlighted every nuance that formed this incredible man. Fine he was to look at, a fact she had little doubt many a woman had noted.

Even battered and undressed, his body seemed that of a man used to being in charge. A warrior. A man who would normally fail to notice a common healer such as her.

Enough.

The man was suffering. From his shallow breathing, she judged he was near death, and here she was acting like a weak-willed lass, not one who’d aided in the birthing of many a babe and offered many a man succor as he’d drawn his last breath.

Frustrated with herself, Rowan glanced at his shoulder where she’d seen the streaks of red. No sign existed of his being wounded. She searched his back, then the other shoulder.

Naught.

Where were the marks? She’d watched them grow, could still smell charred flesh on the air. Uneasy, she fought for calm. Mayhap in her exhaustion, she had imagined both?

As if either mattered? With the men chasing her believing her a witch and wanting her dead, she must focus on the task at hand. Once assured the warrior would survive, she would leave.

With a gentle hand, she examined the warrior’s body for any sign of injury and found nothing swollen nor any visible cause of his unconsciousness.

What had she missed? Something caused him immense pain. She leaned close to his mouth, inhaled his weak breath. No scent of ale or wine. Neither had she expected such. His scream earlier was that of a man in pain.

Poison.

Rowan half fell back, glanced toward the cave opening. Golden rays spilled inside the timeworn entry, illuminated the grass and the circle beyond. Above, tattered clouds filled the sky. She scanned the line of distant trees.

No human or animal lurked nearby.

Pulse racing, she turned toward the man. Nay, he’d not spoken to her mind, now or earlier. She was exhaus—

Eyes as black as the devil’s flickered open. Their potent intensity held her, stirred within her a desperate need.

Awareness flashed within his gaze. Against the glint of the blood-red sun, his teeth began to lengthen.

What manner of creature was he?

Through the wash of agony, Aedan MacGregor, Laird of the Highland Vampire Coven, focused upon the beautiful woman caught within his hold. Terror streaked her wide turquoise eyes, and wisps of her plaited, wheat blond hair flew about her head as she struggled to break free. She appeared like a fairy caught outside the Otherworld.

“Release me!” she gasped.

Her rich burr spilled from her full lips and wrapped around him, cutting through the haze of misery. For a moment he lost himself in her throaty voice, imagining his hands upon her flesh, her cries as he took her over the edge. What in Hades? Never had a human woman tempted him.

Weakness swept his body. Aedan kept his hold upon consciousness—barely. Enough. He had little time or energy for these foolish thoughts.

“Come to me,” he whispered, surprised a scan of her mind offered him naught. Always was he able to read a human’s thoughts. ’Twas the herbs the traitor had slipped into his drink last eve that dulled his senses. Once the effects wore off, he would read her mind with ease.

She shook her head. “Pl-Please, do not kill me.”

“Lass,” he whispered, each word draining precious strength. “Never would I harm you. That I swear.”

“Yo-You are—” She focused on his teeth, and a tremor rippled through her slender frame.

“A vampire.” He struggled not to slip under, to keep her within his hold. Through sheer will, he managed both. “Trust me.”

If possible, terrified eyes widened further. He shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Humans created horrifying fables about what they did not understand, found relief in giving their fabricated creature a name, regardless of the truth.

“I am dying.” He cursed his weakness, cursed the fact that he’d exposed his dire state to a human, one whose mind he could not read. Could he trust her? Did he have any choice? “I need a small amount of your blood.”

Fingers, slim and strong, slid to her slender throat, trembled. “Do nae ask this.”

“Use your dagger,” he whispered, the last of his strength fading fast. “Slice your thumb, and let several drops fall within my mouth. ’Tis all I need to begin to recover.”

Wary eyes studied him. “And then?”

“I will sate my hunger with another.”

Her lower lip wavered. “Will you kill him?”

Did it matter how he acquired nourishment? Aye, to her it did. “He will nae be hurt, but will fall asleep. When he awakens, he will but find himself tired, with no memory of my being there.”

Turquoise eyes darted toward the entry, shifted back.

Bedamned, he should take her blood and be done with it, but he could not risk scaring her. With his body so weakened, if she broke free and ran, he’d not have the strength to will her back or give chase.

After a long moment, she withdrew her dagger. “But a few drops.”

“Aye.”

Precious seconds passed. On an exhale, she slid the honed blade against the pad of her thumb.

A drop of blood beaded upon the sharp metal, and the rich scent filled the air, infused his every breath. His body demanded he take. He waited, preserved the last of his meager energy in case she decided to bolt.

Her eyes locked upon his, she held her thumb a hand’s breadth above his mouth. The beads of red grew, wobbled upon the honed tip, fell.

The warm salty drops landed upon his tongue. Aedan savored sweetness unlike anything he’d ever tasted. He swallowed. Strength flooded his body, and his senses heightened to a dangerous edge. A deep keening ignited within his soul, and a completeness he’d never experienced filled him.

He stilled. By the sword’s blade, this woman was his mate!

With a steadying breath, she pressed her thumb harder, and several more drops landed upon his tongue.

In a brilliant explosion of light, his mind melded to hers. Images ignited: her tumble of terrified thoughts of what he would do to her, of being shunned throughout her life, and of the men who chased her and wanted her dead.

Questions storming him, he withdrew from the woman’s mind.

As if sensing his increased strength, she pulled her thumb away, and pressed her finger over the cut.

He banked his body’s demands to take her, to claim her as his rightful mate. “My thanks.” With care, Aedan sat up, amazed by the increase in his strength from the meager amount of blood he’d swallowed. Was her being his mate responsible?

The beautiful woman stumbled back, the pulse at the base of her throat rapid.

He tried not to notice, to want her. Failed. “As I said before, I will not harm you.” His words were truer than she would ever know. With their bodies merged through her blood, and their destinies joined, he would protect her always, even at the cost of his life.

Looking unconvinced, she watched him. On a shudder, she glanced toward the entry. Images of men with pitchforks, swords, axes, and other weapons chasing her flickered through her mind.

Anger stormed him. “Who threatens you?”

Surprise appeared on her face, then suspicion. “How do you know?”

“You have fear within your eyes,” he replied, not wanting to overwhelm her further by explaining that he could read her mind. The time would come to impart that knowledge. As well, he dismissed his ability to read her mind earlier due to his weakened condition.

“You are a vampire; how can I not be afraid?”

It was only part of the reason she was afraid. Until she grew to trust him, she would tell no more. “Your name?”

She took a step back.

“Please tell me.” He kept his voice soft.

“Rowan Campbell.” She hesitated. “And yours?”

He sensed no treachery in her asking. “Aedan MacGregor. I belong to the Highland Coven.”

“You are alone?”

Aedan nodded. “Aye.”

Her fingers toyed with the sleeve of her gown. “I—I thought stories of vampires were tales crafted by the bards.”

“We keep to ourselves. Unless we feed.”

Her face paled.

Blasted wives’ tales. “We harm none, take naught except what is necessary.”

“And I am to believe you?”

A muscle in his jaw worked. “Had I wanted you dead, ’twould be long since achieved.”

After a moment, she nodded, again glanced toward the entry.

“Fear not. I will protect you.”

She turned, studied him a long moment. “Why would you?”

You are my mate, he wanted to explain. From this moment on her protection would be his first priority. “You saved my life.”

“I did naught but give you a few drops of blood.” She backed another step toward the entry. “I—I must go.”

With their bond, he could not allow her to leave him. “Rowan,” he said, liking the sound of her name upon his tongue. “If you depart now, you will place yourself in danger. While you are in my presence, none will harm you.” He allowed compulsion to soften his voice. “Trust me.”

Panic slid through Rowan as she stared at the formidable man. Man? Nay, a vampire. Could this day become more unbelievable? Aye, it could. Because she found herself wanting to do as he bade and offer him her trust. She needed sleep. ’Twould rid her of such ludicrous thoughts. Unsure, she looked past the stone entry, searched the forest looming beyond.

Trust me.

Rowan whirled to face him. “ ’Twas you who spoke in my mind before.” A smile edged his lips, one that inspired wanton thoughts of her within his arms, of his mouth moving over hers as he made love to her. Heart pounding, she shook her head. “Nay, none of this is happening. You are but a dream.”

“Lass, I am very real.”

Another vision of him laying her upon a moss-covered bank emerged in her mind. “Stop it!”

His face grew somber. “ ’Tis not I.”

“You read my thoughts,” she accused.

“Aye,” he agreed, “but they are images conjured by your mind, by your growing need.”

Her growing need? Ridiculous. “Never have I had such indecent thoughts.” She held up her hand. “Why am I trying to explain? None of this makes any sense.”

“It is complex.”

Complex? An understatement. Since she’d been chased from her home, her entire life had been turned upside down. Rowan attributed her wanton thoughts to exhaustion and turned her focus on finding a place where she would be safe. She eyed the handsome stranger. Though he’d vowed to not harm her, could she give him her trust?

His eyelids slipped closed, and he struggled to reopen them.

She glanced toward the sun rising in the eastern sky. Daylight, the time a vampire slept.

“Yes, soon I must sleep,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue. “But I need your vow that while I rest you will not leave me.”

“Why?”

“As I explained before, ’tis unsafe.”

She almost laughed. And being cloistered with a vampire was safe?

“Aye,” he replied, “I will protect you.”

Anxiety edged through her. “How can you read my mind?”

He hesitated, and then sighed as if coming to a decision of great import. “Your blood now runs through my veins. Forever are we bound.”

“Forever?” She shook her head. Nay, it could not be! “Remove the connection.”

An arrogant smile slanted his mouth. “ ’Tis impossible.”

Was it? Or, did he choose to keep their mental tie for his own self-serving reasons? She’d been so caught up in her fear, her shock at learning he was a vampire, she’d not thought of the obvious questions. Why was he out here alone? Was he a thief, on the run, or had he murdered someone?

He grimaced. “Still your mind’s mayhem. I am nae wanted, nor have I killed anyone.”

“Nay? Then why did I find you half dead within the stone circle?”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “I was drugged and left there to die.”

Chapter Two

Left to die? Rowan stared at the stunning vampire in disbelief. With his immense power and intelligence, he was dangerous. Whoever dared cross him was a fool.

“By whom?” she asked.

“Come,” he said, his voice rough with exhaustion. “We both need sleep.”

She paused. “You will nae answer my question?”

“It is unimportant.”

“Unimportant?” Did he not understand? “As long as I am with you, if you are in danger, it affects me.”

His jaw tightened. “As I said, as long as you are in my presence, I can protect you.”

“As you protected yourself within the stone circle?” His face darkened, and she hesitated. Was she a fool to challenge him? If he wished, he could kill her in a trice.

“Lass, ’tis best if you do not know.”

“For whom?”

“You ask too many questions,” he said with quiet warning. “Do not invite danger.

“Why—” A heaviness weighed upon her, and she grew sleepy. Her legs walked toward him. “Stop making me tired. I wish answers.”

“The time to talk will come later. Now, you will rest—with me.” Her mind blurred, and Rowan struggled for coherent thought. She needed to warn him. “Nor am I safe.”

“Aye.” He reached up, wrapped his strong hand around hers. “Now, lie with me.”

As if ’twas that simple? She scowled at him, but found her gaze lingering on his naked magnificence. Heat stole up her face. “Lie with you? ’Tis indecent!”

“ ’Tis only for sleep,” he assured.

Hesitant, she settled onto the ground near him.

A smile touched his impossibly handsome face, a face crafted for charm and, as well, a face crafted for sin. “I sense you are a healer.” He stroked the curve of her cheek. “Have you never seen a male unclothed?”

She angled her chin. “Indeed, I have tended many a man, but only when they are ill, which you are not.”

“I was dying,” he said, his face growing solemn. “Because of you, I live.”

The sincerity of his words moved her, left her torn. Well she knew her place within the clan. Or, lack of. “Do not paint me heroic. It was you who summoned me to you.”

“Mayhap, but it was your blood that saved my life.”

He stared at her a long moment, the intensity of his gaze sizzling through her body, igniting a longing within her that left her aching.

“Aedan,” he whispered, his soft burr wrapping around her like spun velvet. “I wish to hear you say my name.”

“Why?”

He arched an expectant brow. “Must you challenge my every request?”

She remained silent, unsure why this moment seemed momentous.

“My name.”

Stubborn he was. “Aedan.”

He smiled as if given a precious gift, a smile of satisfaction, one that sent ripples of awareness sliding through her body. “Rowan,” he said, his burr dark with need. “Lie with me.”

“I . . .” She wanted to, but for reasons other than to pursue sleep. Foolish thoughts.

“I agree your thoughts are foolish.”

His breath slid over her face like a soft caress. She hesitated. “Why?”

“Never mind.” He drew her against his muscled body, her soft, flowing gown offering but scant separation.

Rowan expected to feel fear being so close to a vampire. Instead, she found his presence a balm of comfort. More unsettling, she wished for no barrier, to feel his naked flesh against her.

On a groan, he pressed a kiss against her brow. “Lass, do not think overmuch.”

Simple for him, but her body ached in ways she’d never imagined. Another surge of tiredness swept through her. Rowan yawned, her indecent thoughts fading into a blur of exhaustion. Her lids grew heavy, and, against her will, she tumbled into the black void of sleep.

Aedan stared at Rowan asleep within his arms, the sweet taste of her humming through his mind, her erotic visions feeding his own. She was a virgin. When he took her, he would be her first. Never would another touch her.

Ever.

And they would make love, of that he held no doubt. Though she was an innocent, he’d sensed her growing excitement; her visions of them entwined were simple yet devastating.

He inhaled her scent, shaken by how much he wanted her. Sweat beaded his brow, and his fangs lengthened. With sheer determination, he willed away his desire to feed as well as the gut-wrenching need that demanded he claim her for his mate.

He must not forget the reason they’d met. Someone within his clan’s trusted circle wanted him, their laird, dead. What had his enemy used to leave him in such a disabled state? Senses alert, he scanned his body. All but dissolved, a trace of foreign substance lay near his heart.

Foxglove.

A dangerous herb, but not strong enough to kill a vampire. A fact a vampire understood, and the reason why Aedan had been left within the stone circle. Unconscious, and with the circle of stones slowly drawing his power so that he would be unable to move if he awoke, he would have been burned to death by the morning sun’s rays.

Sunlight washed the earth beyond the cave’s entry, wrapping the roll of land within its warmth. Aedan’s lids grew heavier. Aye, ’twas time to sleep. Whoever plotted against him would be seeking rest as well.

He settled more comfortably against Rowan, and her flaxen hair spilled from its hastily woven plait across the paleness of his arm as if fairy dust. A smile touched his mouth. Aye, he was a man enchanted. Intrigued, he lifted several locks of her hair, let the strands slide through his fingers to spiral back against her windswept mane.

Rowan, a fitting name. The rowan tree was a symbol of strength. The five-pointed star at the base of each berry was a symbol of protection to the ancients. The hearty white flowers that grew upon the sturdy limbs were a symbol of innocence, appropriate as the lass was innocent of a man’s touch. He would not dwell upon the latter.

Another wave of fatigue settled over him. This day he would rest, but this night, once he’d fed, he would keep watch over the stone circle and wait. Whoever had left him there should return to ensure his body lay charred inside.

Then, the traitor would die.

Confident he would soon have vengeance against whoever had dared to try and kill him, Aedan cast an invisible shield upon the cave’s entry, allowing no one to enter. With the scent of Rowan filling his every breath, he closed his eyes and gave in to much needed sleep.

A wisp of chilled air skimmed over Rowan. With a shiver, she reached for a blanket, and her hand scraped upon the cold dirt.

Dirt?

Where was she?

Memories flooded her, of running for her life after being branded a witch, of finding herself before the stone circle, then of helping save a vampire’s life, of his unexpected tenderness, and of how he’d held her in his arms and pressed a kiss upon her brow as she’d fallen asleep.

She opened her eyes. Blackness engulfed her. Heart pounding, Rowan stumbled to her feet. “Aedan?”

From deep within the forest a wolf howled, the lonely sound macabre.

“Aedan, are you here?”

A gust, rich with the scent of the night, tumbled past.

On cautious feet she crept to the entry. She searched the midnight sky, thick with stars against the moonless night. Though he’d taken a few drops of her blood, hunger must have driven him to feed.

She listened, thankful the forest did not ring with the angry shouts of men in search of her. No doubt they were scouring the woods. Should she use the blanket of night to put more distance between them, head south where she could begin a new life? Or, should she stay and trust Aedan to keep his word to protect her?

Tingles of sensation edged up her skin.

Uneasy, she scanned the distant line of trees, found her gaze drawn to the stone circle, its sturdy columns black against the star-washed night. As she stared, a pulse filled the air, slow, steady, growing stronger. The need to move toward the ancient circle filled her.

Confused, she took a step forward.

Mist swirled around her; then fully dressed, Aedan stood before her.

Rowan jumped back. “How did you do that?” She held up her hand. “Nay, I do not want to know.”

Black eyes held hers, their intensity stealing her breath. With a curse he caught her wrist, his hold gentle, then turned her away from the circle and led her toward the cave.

“Aedan, what is wrong?”

At the nervousness within her voice, Aedan relaxed his stance. She was perplexed; how could she not be? He was as confused. “The stone circle drew you, did it not?”

“Aye.” A blush colored her cheeks. “Though it sounds foolish.”

“Far from foolish,” he replied. “To humans a stone circle is a place of power, a place for ceremony, but for vampires ’tis fatal.” He took her hand, needing to feel the warmth of her skin against his own. “If a vampire is caught within, the stones draw his strength, and over time we become unable to move.”

“And with the morn, you would be burned to death. Oh God.” A shiver wove through her, and he folded her within his arms, their bond growing stronger with each passing moment.

Worry-filled turquoise eyes met his. “Aedan, why would I be drawn into the circle?”

He frowned. “Mayhap it sensed our bond.” But, doubts lingered.

“Mayhap.” She exhaled a ragged breath. “Do you have any idea who tried to kill you?”

He shook off his disturbing thoughts. “Nay, but I will find my enemy.” He scanned the night-blackened stones, the shiver of starlight glinting off each. Majestic. Powerful. “Whoever dared such a traitorous act will return to ensure I am dead.”

“What will you do then?”

Aedan remained silent. Soon he must explain he was laird of the Highland Coven, and that he could not allow anyone near him he could not trust. But he did not want to trouble her when she already had so much to worry about.

And what of her being his mate? When would the time come when he must share such critical information?

A stick cracked nearby.

Hands strong and gentle lifted Rowan. The earth blurred, and she found herself pressed within the shadows inside the entry of the cave.

“Stay!” Aedan whispered. With a swirl of mist, he vanished.

Heart pounding, she stared into the shadows of the night.

A wolf howled, closer this time.

Prickles slid up her flesh. Someone was watching her. Pulse racing, she scanned the looming blackness, the air growing cooler with each breath.

Mist engulfed her. “You are safe.”

On a half scream, Rowan turned. The swirl of white cleared, and Aedan again stood before her, his body taut, his gaze searching the forest beyond. After a final scan, his eyes met hers.

Would she ever grow used to his appearing out of nowhere? “What did you find?” Nerves tangled her voice.

“Naught. Neither did I pick up any unusual scent. Most likely, a roebuck or another animal of the night passed nearby.”

She should agree, assure herself all was well, but . . .

“What is it?”

At the edge in his voice, she searched the night-blackened land. “I am unsure, but it was almost as if I sensed someone was out there. Oddly, with the passing moments, the air grew colder.”

“Foxglove,” he said with a hiss.

“What?”

“Whoever drugged me did so with foxglove, which has dulled my senses.”

A tremor rippled through her. “Another vampire is nearby?”

“Mayhap.”

“But you are not sure.”

Aedan shook his head, his frustration easy to read. “Nay.”

“Most likely you are right; it was an animal,” she said. “Or, if another vampire, he or she could have been far away.”

“Do nae make excuses for me. I have sworn to protect you,” he said, his voice grim. “If another vampire was nearby, I should have been able to detect him. I had not considered the drug’s effects, a mistake I will not make again.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, then slowly released. “However much I wish to take you elsewhere to keep you safe, it is imperative that I remain here another day, mayhap two. If anyone returns to confirm my death, I must know.”

“I understand.”

“You do not, but you must trust that I will keep you from harm.”

Touched by the depth of his caring, she laid her hand upon his forearm. “However irrational, I do.”

Aedan drew her hand within his and pressed a kiss upon her palm, humbled to have found this amazing woman, one he wanted forever. “ ’Tis not irrational.”

“Is it not? All my life I have been told tales of vampires’ viciousness, of their killing people in cold blood without thought. Yet, with you I find trust.” She paused, her eyes searching his as understanding dawned. “But because you can read my mind you already know that, do you not?”

He stroked his thumb across her lower lip, wanting her, needing her forever. “Aye. “

If he could read her mind, was there more that he could sense or know about her that he hadn’t revealed?

At her thought, he released her, turned and scoured the darkened woods. Judging from the stiffness of his body, he was upset.

Rowan’s unease grew. “Aedan, what are you keeping from me?”

Silence.

“Aedan.”

He turned, his face taut, his eyes torn between happiness and regret. “I want you.”

Need infused her, a yearning so desperate she caught her breath.

His nostrils flared.

Pleasure shot through her. He was not immune to her either.

“Nay, I am far from immune. I want you overmuch.”

“Never before have I wanted a man.” Heat warmed her cheeks. “Never have I lain with a man. But against all that I have been taught, against my beliefs, I want you.”

“Rowan.”

At the desire that roughened his voice, heat built within her. “Tell me.”

He muttered a curse. “Never did I believe I would find you.”

“Find me?” She frowned. “We have never met.”

He gave a cold laugh void of amusement. “We have not, but our blood recognizes the other.”

“You are not making any sense.”

On a shaky exhale, his eyes held hers, a silent plea within. “Rowan, you are my mate.”

Chapter Three

Against the backdrop of the night, shock veiled Rowan’s face. “I am your mate? Impossible.”

Hurt tore through Aedan at her disbelief, but had not his surprise at the discovery been as great? “Rowan, neither you nor I were given a choice. Our bond is a gift of nature neither of us can change.”

“I . . .”

Bedamned. “Did you not say but moments ago that you want me?”

Her body trembling, she tried to step back.

Aedan held her, needed her to accept the attraction between them, one as natural as his next breath. “I am going to kiss you—unless you bid me to stop.”

Eyes wide and unsure, she watched him.

However much she struggled to accept the fact, beneath her nervousness he saw need. He lowered his mouth to a whisper above hers.

“Order me to stop,” he said as her scent infused his every breath, driving him insane, “before I touch you, before I taste you everywhere.”

Her body shuddered against his. “I cannot.”

On a groan he claimed her lips, hot, hard, demanding her response. Her actions would acknowledge what she refused to say.

“Aedan,” she moaned as she returned his kiss, her own blistering hot.

His tongue slid between her lips, teasing, tasting, seducing her until her body melded against his. On a soft growl, he backed her against the cave wall and pressed his full length against her, wanting her to feel every inch of his need.

He lifted his head. “I am going to make love to you. Here. With naught between us but the stars and the night.”

Another tremor whipped through Rowan. Until Aedan she had never known someone who made her want, who made her feel as a woman desired. Now, she did.

And he was a vampire.

However frightening the thought, she accepted it.

But, he believed her a woman with whom he shared a lifelong bond. How she wished such a connection could exist between them. But she was human, while he was a vampire. She could not ponder the differences between them now. This stunning vampire, a man who sought to protect her, who found her beautiful and engaging, wanted her. However wrong, she wanted him as well.

Her lower lip trembled. “I need you.”

“Aye,” he said on a rough whisper, “I will fulfill each fantasy and more.”

A cool breeze tumbled over her body. Rowan gasped. “I am naked.”

“Aye. A vampire’s speed has many a use.” He slid his lips against the sensitive skin at her neck. “Worry not, I will nae rush the lovemaking.”

The sultry promise in his voice left her breathless. How could he move her to such depths? How could he make her want him so much? If nothing else, she understood that he was a man of his word, one she found herself needing more than she could explain.

Rowan laid her hand upon his heart. “Aedan, make love to me.”

Hands, tender and gentle, slid up her flesh to cup her breasts. “Only to you—forevermore. With a heated look, he lowered his head and drew a sensitive tip into his mouth, suckled.

Sensation poured through her as he teased, tasted until her mind blurred with desire.

“Aye, lass,” he said, kneeling before her, “ ’tis pleasure you feel, pleasure only I shall ever bring you.”

His hands skimmed over her, and she struggled to speak.

“Feel me touch you,” he whispered.

His fingers splayed her most private place, and cold air brushed against her. She gasped. “I—”

“Watch me,” he said, hunger burning in his eyes, his mouth but a breath away from her, “while I taste you.”

Merciful Mary! Should she allow this?

“Should you?” he asked as his finger slid deep within her. A groan echoed within his throat, and his gaze darkened. “You are so wet,” he said, slowly withdrawing his finger. “Tell me, should you allow this?”

Her every fiber hummed. The air around her pulsed with a scorching heat. “Yes.” Would she now be damned?

“Nay, never will you be damned.” With a smile, he leaned forward, drew his tongue across her slickness, tasted her essence.

As with her breasts, he savored, his mouth a sweet torment. Her body trembled with each stroke of his tongue. Her mind blurred with emotion, a frenzy that devoured her until all she could do was feel.

“Now,” he whispered as his lips pressed against her sensitive wetness, “let yourself go.”

A slow tremor wove through Rowan before waves of heat swamped her. “Aedan!”

“Come for me.”

Another burst of energy tore through her; her body stiffened, then soared. Colors exploded in her mind.

Her cries of pleasure fueled Aedan as he took, tasted, and cherished her release. Never had he met a woman so sensitive. Her eyes glazed with passion, and he watched her again spill over the edge. Satisfied, he swept her into his arms.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Her question stumbled out in a sated whisper.

“Making love to you.”

A frown furrowed her brow. “I thought you already did.”

He nuzzled her neck as he strode into the blackness of the cave, laying her upon a cloth he’d spread out earlier. “That was but the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Rowan sighed, a satisfied glow upon her face. “Will I die?”

“Aye.” He winked. “With pleasure.”

“I think mayhap you are a wee bit arrogant.”

“Aye,” he said as he rested his body atop hers, his full length flush against her sensitive wetness, “very much so when it comes to you.” He pressed his brow against hers.

“What?” she asked.

“The first time, ’twill hurt.”

A smile filled with pleasure and sincerity touched her face. “As I have heard, the pain will last but a short while; then there will be naught but pleasure.”

“Lass, I believe those are supposed to be my words to offer comfort to you.”

She arched a playful brow. “I am a healer.”

Need surged through him. “So you are.” He slid against her swollen wetness and groaned. “When I take you, we will be joined by yet another bond forever.”

“A bond I will cherish,” she murmured, her mind overwhelmed with the wonders of her feelings.

Her response left him humbled, thankful for the gift of her being. Aedan drove deep, and Rowan cried out, the streak of pain shattering the warmth of her gaze, tearing him apart. Beneath him, Rowan’s body began to glitter. Stunned, Aedan stilled. The ancient tale was well known. When one of the fey lost her virginity, her skin glittered.

Rowan was a fairy?

Impossible.

He’d scanned her thoughts. She had been raised in the Highlands by the humans.

The twinkles of light coating her body grew brighter.

Panicking, he scoured her mind. Naught. Aedan started to withdraw from her thoughts, but a dark shadow locked deep inside caught his attention. He wove through the matrix.

By the sword’s blade, ’twas true!

“Aedan?” Rowan said, her voice unsure.

He tried to focus as his mind fought to understand. A fairy. Which explained her healing abilities, those natural to the fey, and why the Scots who chased her believed her a witch. How could she not know, not have any inkling of such life-altering information? He again scoured her mind for answers, found naught but innocence of the fact.

As if her knowledge of her heritage changed anything? Ancient laws forbid a vampire from changing a fairy into a vampire. Though the fey’s magic was strong, it was unknown if a fairy could survive the transition.

Neither was the threat to her life alone. Regardless of whether she was destined to be with him for life, if he dared try and convert her, the agony she would experience during the transition would be sensed by Ysenda, Queen of the Otherworld, whose retribution was foretold to be quick.

And lethal.

“Aedan, is something wrong?” Rowan asked, her voice anxious.

Wrong? Indeed. She was his mate. But to change her into a vampire was forbidden, and doing so now could invite death. “You are—were a virgin,” he said, trying to absorb the enormity of the revelation.

A tentative smile widened her lips. “My body is adjusting.”

“Indeed,” he said on a groan. What should he do?

Rowan shivered against him, and her tight sheath wrapped around him causing tortuous pleasure.

What could he do? No longer was she a virgin. And, she was his mate, his, forever. Emotions swept him. Mayhap forbidden to change her into a vampire, but he would give her a woman’s pleasure. The issues of her being of the fey, he would consider later.

Aedan took her mouth in a long, slow kiss, then lifted his head. “Now,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I will finish making love to you.” With each stroke slow, he cherished the spirals of heat shooting through him, tempting him to let go, to drive into her until he found his release. Aedan kept up a steady pace. This time, her first time, would be for her.

Rowan’s head fell to the side. “Aedan,” she whispered, her throaty voice thick with wonder. “I know not if I can take much more.”

“You can,” he said as he slid his full length inside and proved her wrong.

Against the burst of starlight flooding the heavens, the stone circle stood like a black mark on the earth. Without warning, striations of cloud severed the sky, wisps that for but a moment held the struggling shimmers, and then faded into night.

Restless, Aedan scanned the land outside the cave.

A soft clatter echoed from the northwest.

He focused on the sound, listened for voices, the scrape of steel against a leather scabbard, anything to alert him to another’s presence.

Long moments passed.

Naught.

With the foxglove still dulling his senses, he’d taken extra precautions, set extra wards. If anyone had tried to come near during the night, he would have known.

Over the hours past most of his weakness had diminished, his fast recovery due to Rowan’s being fey. Known for its ability to heal, the powerful fey blood was restoring his health faster than he had believed possible.

“Aedan?”

At Rowan’s sleepy voice, images of the hours they’d made love tangled within his mind. The way she’d responded to his every touch, her creative passion as she’d caressed him as well.

With a tender smile, he returned and knelt beside her. He nudged a swath of wheat blond hair away from her cheek, where her skin was dusted with a star-edged glow. “You are beautiful when you awaken.”

A tinge of red stained her cheeks. “I look awful.”

“Nay.” He gave her a gentle smile, amazed at the feelings Rowan stirred. “You look like a woman sated, a woman whom I adore, and a woman whom I will cherish always.”

Hope flickered in her eyes and then faded. “You know little of me.”

“I know your presence is a gift,” he replied, needing her to understand the magnitude of her presence within his life.

She opened her mouth to speak, shook her head.

Aedan lifted her chin with his finger, caught the questions haunting her mind. “What is it?” At her hesitation, he stroked his thumb along the soft curve of her jaw. “Rowan, you can trust me.”

She drew a slow breath, exhaled. “You said I was your mate.”

“A fact you find difficult to accept.”

“Difficult?” She gave a shaky laugh. “Until yesterday, vampires were but a legend, terrifying creatures of the night. Now, not only have I met one, but I have made love to one.”

She turned away, but he caught the distress in her eyes. By the sword’s blade, she loved him! Emotions stormed him: need, desperation, happiness.

In their meager time together, she’d given him a glimpse of their future. Except, with her humanness, her life would end too soon.

At the thought of losing her, an ache ripped through him. Sweat beaded his brow, and his fangs lengthened; he fought the urge to turn her so she could be with him forever. An act forbidden. Slamming his eyes shut, he struggled against his body’s demand and the inherent need to claim Rowan with his every breath.

Within the quiet of the night, Aedan’s lungs labored.

Concerned, Rowan turned. “Are you well?

Silence.

He lifted his lids. Under the sheen of moonlight, Aedan’s scrutiny turned cold. A shudder wracked his muscled frame, and his fangs lengthened.

Tugging on her garb, she shoved to her feet, stumbled back. “No!” Regardless of what he made her feel, want, he was dangerous. She bolted for the entry.

“Rowan!”

Stones jabbed her feet as she ran faster. Without warning, strong hands caught her, turned her to face him.

“You will not leave me!”

Tears blurred her eyes as she pulled, twisted to break free.

Fingers tightened on her wrist.

Terror slammed her chest. “What do you want from me?!”

On a muttered curse, his hold gentled. “Rowan, never will I harm you.”

Never would he harm her? He was a vampire. How could she have believed a relationship between them could exist?

Because they’d made love?

Merciful Mary, she’d made love with a vampire!

A violent shiver wracked her body. Her knees trembled, because she wanted him still.

“Rowan, listen to me.”

Ashamed, she struggled to break free. “Let me go!”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of, nor to fear. Aye, I am dangerous, but never to you.” He exhaled. His face relaxed, and his fangs withdrew.

Before Rowan stood the man she’d first seen, a stunning warrior who would make any woman want.

“Let me explain,” Aedan said. Desperation trembled within his request, a raw plea that had her hesitating. Unsure, Rowan nodded.

On an exhale, he scanned their surroundings and then faced her. The strain across his forehead eased, but she caught the lines near his eyes, proof he wasn’t as calm as he appeared.

“ ’Tis normal for vampires to draw blood from our mates, but you are not a vampire. Neither will I convert you.” He exhaled. “Our pairing is unique. More than your blood melding with mine, more than your wanting and being drawn to me. ’Twas destiny that we came together. A fate neither of us could expect . . . nor understand.” He paused. “I struggle with the acceptance of such a pairing as much as you.”

“Because you are a . . . vampire?”

His gaze grew intense. “Rowan, I am more than a common vampire.”

“More?”

“Aye.” His voice rumbled with authority. “I am the laird of the Highland Vampire Coven.”

Astonished, she stared. “Their laird?”

“Aye. You found me naked, my garb and pendant with the clan seal stolen.”

Nay, could not be true. ’Twas a poor joke. She’d watched his teeth lengthen, witnessed Aedan change into a ruthless killer.

He gave her a gentle shake. “Enough of those foolish thoughts! I am nae a killer, nor is this a joke. You are overwhelmed; how can you not be? But, hear my words, I speak the truth.”

“I . . .” Fighting for calm, she studied the strong lines of his face, remembered the confident way he held himself as he spoke, his regal bearing. A day ago she’d believed him a braggart, or a thief on the run.

Not . . . a laird betrayed.

But, he’d promised to protect her from harm. He’d said she was his destiny. Yet she was but a commoner and he a laird, a man of tremendous responsibility and power. How was this conceivable? And if ’twas possible, did she want to live her life with him forever?

“You are my mate.”

The calmness of his delivery changed naught. “People do not mate.”

“I agree, but vampires are not human. Like wolves, when we find our life partner, we join forever.”

“I am neither a vampire, nor a wolf.”

“I am as confused as you,” he agreed. “Such a bond should be impossible, yet you exist, and the moment I tasted your blood, I recognized you as my mate.”

Torn, Rowan hesitated. Could she find happiness with this vampire, a fulfillment she’d believed unattainable because she’d been an outcast to the Highland clans? She could not forget the way they’d made love, the intensity, the passion, as if they were truly meant to be together.

But mates?

“If I accept there can be such a bond between a human and a vampire, what does this mean for us?” Us. She loved the sound of belonging, of being with Aedan forever.

Black eyes glowed. “A life together forever.”

“Aedan . . .” Emotion swelled in her chest at the love she felt for him, at the dreams he made her dare to believe.

“Trust me.”

“I do. Incredibly I do.” She swallowed hard. “And I want you . . . for always.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and he wiped them away.

“What is wrong?”

The tenderness of his voice left her aching. “Do you not think we wish for the impossible?”

“Nay.” With infinite gentleness Aedan claimed her mouth. As Rowan’s taste poured through him, pressure built, and his fangs lengthened. For a moment he allowed himself the pleasure of sliding them along the velvet curve of her throat. She stiffened, and then slowly relaxed. At her sigh, the way her body pressed against his in an intimate plea, he hardened to a painful ache.

Humbled by her acceptance of him, however much he wanted to sink his teeth deep and convert her, he would not do so. But, with each hour the urge to change her was growing. Would there come a time when he couldn’t resist? Nay, whatever it took, he would leave her untouched. To remain human.

And half fairy.

“What of your people?” she asked, breaking into his troubled musings. “As I am human, how can they accept me?”

“They will.”

Amusement danced in her eyes. “Because you will demand it?”

“Because when they meet you they will be charmed.”

Her throaty laugh slid through him like warm mead, and he longed to take her again, but having lost her virginity hours ago, she needed to heal. The oncoming night would be soon enough, and then, he still must be gentle.

“Aedan,” she said, her voice serious, “your people may demand you claim a life partner of your own kind.”

“You are my destiny.”

She arched a doubtful brow. “And that is all they will need to hear to convince them?”

“There are challenges to face.” An understatement. Never had a vampire discovered his mate was a human, much less one half fey. The uproar at exposing her grim and murky heritage to his clan would be formidable indeed, but his people would learn to accept Rowan. He would demand it of them for, above all, he refused to lose her.

“Challenges indeed.” She hesitated. “And what of the person you await this night? If he does not return to make sure you are dead, how will you find him?”

A question he’d pondered. “If no one returns to check the stone circle this night, I must return to my coven under disguise so as not to alert them that I live.”

“Why not put the ashes from a fire within the circle?” Rowan asked. “Then, if anyone comes once we are gone, he will believe the remains are you.”

“Nay, my scent would not be among the ashes . . .” Why had he not thought of it before? “But you are right. If I tossed a small length of my hair within the flames, whoever returns would detect my scent and be convinced I am dead.” He touched her shoulder. “Wait here. I am going to retrieve wood.”

A sudden mist swirled around him, and Rowan found herself staring into the night.

She scanned the sweep of trees beneath the moonlight.

Like a soft whisper, music flowed upon the breeze as if a person played upon a lute.

Impossible. And the song appeared to come from within the stone ring. Could this night become any stranger? Intrigued, she stepped forward.

With each step the music grew. Several paces before the massive pillars, a gust swirled around her.

A chill swept her, and Rowan stopped. Nay, she must return—

A deep tremor shook the ground. The earth inside the ring darkened. Like bony fingers, cracks split the turf, spiraling out from the center. Without warning, the wind rose, pulling her toward the gap between the stones.

Terrified, she fought to break free, but the force strengthened, dragging her body toward the towering pillars. No! Rowan opened her mouth to scream.

Then blackness.

Chapter Four

“Rowan?” Another shiver of fear ran through Aedan as he stared at Rowan’s limp form in his arms. Her face was pale, her breath but a flutter against his skin. She lived. Barely. Had he taken a moment longer to return, she would have been drawn into the stone circle.

And would have died.

Before, he’d believed the circle sensed their connection, but after learning she was part fey, he’d dismissed any threat to her. The stone circle was the entry to the Otherworld, her home. But now, danger pulsed through the air, a malignancy that foretold ill.

For her.

Why? Rowan had no vampire blood within her. If she had—

A hum of energy like a breath vibrated through the air.

He stilled. Nay, ’twas impossible. Such was—

Whispers of light brushed against Rowan’s skin, shimmered around her in a whimsical dance. His breath left him in a rush.

She carried their child.

Overwhelmed, humbled by such a gift, Aedan pressed a kiss upon her brow. Never had he believed he would find a woman who loved him. Now, Rowan had given him that and more.

“Rowan?” he whispered.

A soft moan fell from her lips.

He brushed her damp locks from her brow, the sheen of moisture revealing the subtle trauma upon her system, that indeed her body had begun to change. Would her fey blood protect her human side from the intense changes to come? How long would it take for their child to grow within her? Seven months as was the norm for a vampire child? Due to the strength of her fairy blood, would the time she carried their child be less?

And what of her human side? Would her body accept the presence of a vampire child, or would it rebel? By making love with her, had he endangered her life? Bedamned! Why had he not considered the chance of her becoming pregnant, or the ramifications? He’d been so caught up in wanting her, he’d thought of naught else.

Aedan blew out a rough breath. Now he understood. The power within the stone circle had detected the child and sensed that within its body pulsed vampire blood. A natural enemy of the vampire, the protective energy within the stones had sought to rid Rowan’s body of the invader.

Had the power of the stones alerted the fairy queen? Nay, if so, Ysenda, Queen of the Otherworld, would have appeared. Though he’d planned to remain near the circle to try to catch his betrayer, for Rowan’s safety he must take them far away.

“Aedan?”

At Rowan’s feeble whisper he gave her a tender smile. “I am here.” He gently laid her upon the soft grass, knelt by her side. “How do you feel?”

“I—I . . . am dizzy.”

A mild symptom of her pregnancy. How long before she would feel the first kick of their babe? “I asked that you remain hidden. Why did you leave the cave before my return?”

A frown crowded her brow. “I heard the song of a lute coming from the stone circle. Curious, I went to find the source.”

Anger sparked. The fey’s passion for music was well known, though not to Rowan. It had been a trap set to lure her.

She started to sit, and Aedan helped her. “As I walked closer the ground began to tremble; cracks opened within the circle. I tried to leave”—a shiver wracked her body as she glanced toward the circle—“but it pulled me. I-I must have passed out.”

Bedamned. And he’d caught her a second before she’d fallen inside. “Rowan,” he said, keeping his voice calm, “I am taking you away from here.”

Lines furrowed her brow. “I thought you needed to wait here another night to see if anyone returned to the circle?”

“Things have changed.”

Shrewd eyes studied his. “What things?”

The waver in her voice had him damning the entire situation. “Rowan . . .” How did he explain the magnitude of what he’d discovered? Blast it, how could he not? “You are carrying my child.”

“Your child?” A smile tugged at her mouth. He but teased her. Rowan waited for his answering glint of laughter, anything to assure her Aedan was merely jesting to lighten the moment. But, his expression remained intense.

She tried to pull back; he held her firm.

“It cannot be,” she whispered, as if to speak the words would ensure their truth.

“Never would I lie about something of such import.”

The seriousness of his voice shook her further. “How is such a thing possible?”

The faintest smile touched the corner of his mouth, faded. “You are a healer, you know how a child is created.”

Frustration swelled. “That is not what I meant.”

His face softened, and he took her hand, cradled it within his own. “My belief is that when we made love, our bodies recognized that we are mates and—”

“Created a child?” Her fragmented whisper echoed her shock. “I find it difficult to believe.”

“Aye, there is much to accept.”

“Except you have,” she said, her mind overwhelmed, “completely, without any question.”

“ ’Tis nature’s decision, and not my place to question her wisdom.” Aedan glanced toward the circle, then turned back to her, his expression grim. “You are not safe here.”

Reasons why she was unsafe poured through her mind, the foremost one being that she was in love with a vampire.

Black eyes narrowed. “Never would I hurt you.

“Nay,” she whispered. With Aedan she found strength, a calmness she’d never before experienced, and a belief that, come what may, he would protect her.

A far-off yell echoed from the south.

Against the merest hint of morning, torchlight wavered in the distance.

A low growl erupted from Aedan. He released her, shoved to his feet. “The men who search for you.”

She stood, caught his hand. “What are you going to do?”

Furious eyes met hers. “Kill them.”

Heart pounding, she shook her head. “Their deaths will but incite more people to join in the search for me.”

“Then I will wipe the men’s minds, and they will remember naught.”

If only ’twas so simple. “Should the men return to their village with no remembrance, ’twill convince any who hold doubts that I have cast a spell to erase their memories. Alas, they too will raise their swords and join in to try to catch and burn me at the stake.”

His mouth tightened. “None will harm you!”

The determination within his voice left her shaken. “Aedan,” she urged, “there must be another way.”

He eyed her a long moment, his expression dark with anger; then his body relaxed a degree. “We will leave here. Before we go, we will convince them you are dead.”

If they could, it would be an immense relief. “How?”

“The cliffs are but a few leagues to the west. We will travel there. Then, you will toss your clothes over the edge into the sea. Once we have hidden, you will scream, and the men in search of you will come running.”

Simple, yet effective. “With my clothes floating atop the waves, they will believe that guilt-laden, I have jumped to my death.”

“Aye. More important, they will end their search and report to the others that you have died.”

“And what about the false evidence you were to leave to convince your betrayer you are dead?” Rowan asked.

“Once the men searching for you have departed, we will return, and I will finish the task.”

A man’s voice echoed nearby.

Aedan caught her hand. “Hurry.” With keen night vision, he guided her through the forest. Soon, the rich sting of salt grew in the air, the ground soft with the moisture from the sea. He pushed aside the limb of a thick fir, and she gasped.

“ ’Tis beautiful.”

Cliffs, battered by wind and time, stood illuminated by the moonlight. Blasts of white erupted against the ragged stone where the surf pounded the sheer wall of rock below.

“Aye, ’tis a bonny sight, one I never tire of.” He led her forward. Near the edge, he released her, nodded. “Go ahead and remove your garb.”

However foolish, the thought of disrobing before Aedan left her shy.

Tenderness touched his face. “After the ways I have touched you, kissed you everywhere, there is no reason to be bashful.”

Heat burned her cheeks. “Must you read my thoughts?”

He gave a soft chuckle. Always would she amaze him. Aedan lifted her chin with his thumb, bent to place a soft kiss upon her mouth. “I will not look.”

Seconds later, the whisper of clothes sounded in the night, awakening images of her naked within his mind. His body ached to take her again, her sweet taste still warm upon his lips.

“I am done,” Rowan said.

“Cast your clothes over the edge.”

The flutter of clothes melded with the rush of waves.

His body hardened. Stealing but one glimpse of her lush body, he covered her nakedness with his cloak, then led her to the nearby bushes. “Now scream.”

Rowan’s yell pierced the night.

“Over there!” a distant voice called.

The thud of footsteps grew. Between the ripple of leaves, torchlight cast slashes of yellow upon the sway of grass and jagged rock.

“The tracks lead this way,” a man snarled, his burr deep.

“Aye,” replied another. “Toward the cliffs.”

Fractured torchlight illuminated the men as they drew near, their faces mottled with anger.

Rage churned within Aedan as he struggled against the urge to kill those who would dare harm Rowan. Though he’d promised not to touch them, neither would he risk these men’s catching sight of her. Within his mind he beckoned the air, thick with moisture from the sea.

Around them mist grew, thickening to a slow, subtle sweep of white.

The nearest Scot rubbed his arms, his scraggly beard accenting a weathered face lined with a grimace. “Blasted cold tonight.”

“Aye,” another man replied, shrewd eyes scanning his surroundings, “and looking as if ’twill be foggy as well.”

Rowan stiffened.

Fury wrapped around Aedan. These are the men who have been chasing you, aye?

Surprise widened her eyes. We can speak through our thoughts?

He nodded.

The men, are they the ones after you?

Aye. The bastards, ’twould sate many an urge to slay them. He rubbed Rowan’s arms, waited. Once the men saw the garments floating on the surf and departed for their clan, he would take her far away.

“Step with care, lads,” called a man leading the group who had a deep scar slashed across his lower jaw. “I can hear the pounding of water. The cliffs are near.”

A redheaded man close to the carved rock lifted his torch, the shudder of flames casting harsh shadows against his face. “The edge is over here.” He took several cautious steps, paused and leaned forward.

“Do you see anything?” called a man farther to the back.

“Aye,” the redheaded man answered. “A woman’s gown floats upon the waves.”

The man with the scraggly beard halted before the edge. He peered over, grunted. “ ’Twas the lass’s scream we heard when she jumped.”

“Looks as if the witch killed herself,” the man with the scar across his jaw grumbled. “Saves us the blasted trouble.”

“Do you think she’s dead?” a tall man asked as he moved to stand beside the others.

Silence descended upon the shoddy group, and Rowan tensed at Aedan’s side. He covered her hand with his, gave a subtle mental push to the tall man holding doubt.

Gnarled fingers tugging at his scraggly beard, he shrugged. “Aye, the lass is dead; the clothes are proof. Besides, I see nay tracks leading away. Let us return to our clan. ’Tis good news we will bring.”

“Aye,” the redheaded man said as he stepped back.

Murmurs of agreement followed the group as they faded into the forest, broken torchlight spitting like evil whispers in their wake.

Rowan relaxed at Aedan’s side. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“The mist.”

He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss upon her palm. “Only for you. Come, we must return to the cave. Once I am done, we will leave.” The mist cloaked them as they walked, the coolness offering little relief from the heat of his need for her, which had been inflamed by his awareness of her nakedness beneath his cloak.

At the cave, Aedan halted. “Wait here.” He entered the circle, sensing the immediate slow drain of his energy. Posthaste, he stacked kindling in an outline of where he’d lain and then used his dagger to cut a swath of his hair. He laid the strands atop the wood, then hurried outside the ring of ancient stones.

Focused on the branches, he gathered his power. Wisps of smoke curled, then burst into flame, the odor of burning hair strong. Within minutes, the roaring fire faded, leaving behind only ashes.

Soft footsteps echoed behind him, stilled. “Now, whoever has betrayed you will believe you are dead.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “As those searching for you at the cliffs believe you.”

A tense silence fell between them, one laden with shadows. “ ’Tis time to leave.”

Rowan glanced up. “Where will we go?”

“To a place known only to lairds and members of high regard within the coven.”

“A laird.” Though soft, her words held tension.

“Aye,” he said, “but I am a simple person, one who desperately needs you.”

“Simple? Nay, Aedan, there is nothing simple about you.” She stilled.

“What?”

Beneath the star-filled sky, her unsure eyes met his. “I will give birth to a princess.”

“Or a prince.”

Her brows arched. “Do you know?”

“Nay.” Before she asked or said anything else, he wrapped her within his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you where you will be safe.” He envisioned the sweep of mist, the cool moisture filling his pores, shattering his form in a violent rush. A whoosh exploded within his mind. Fragments of his body imploded, splintered into droplets. In a vaporous swirl, he cradled Rowan and flew north, her gasp lost to the echo of time, the frantic passage of air unbound.

A short while later Rowan fought the blur within her head.

“Steady, lass.”

Strong hands held her, and Aedan’s smile came into focus, full of pride and arrogance. She touched her temple. “What just happened?”

“I have brought you to my ancestral home.”

They’d traveled?

“Aye,” he said.

“Why did you not warn me that you would shift?”

“ ’Twould have taken too long.”

She blew out a frustrated sigh, turned to take in her surroundings. Darkness clung to the land. No, stars shimmered within the sky. The moonlight outlined wisps of battered clouds moving slowly in the night and the peaks jutting skyward around them with merciless care.

Rowan spun to face him. “We are atop a mountain!”

“We are.” Pride coated his voice. “ ’Tis the Cullinthe of Skye, land passed down through generations, a place shown to me in my youth.”

Within the sheen of weakening night, the fading moonlight accented the approaching dawn. Like a painting of grandeur, the rugged mountains tumbled before her in an endless array.

Through a cut in the formidable stone, the ocean came into view. Waves surged ashore, washed over the lavish array of rocks as a layer of fog wove through the shoreline.

Touched, she met Aedan’s gaze. “All my life, each night when I found my bed, I thought of the morrow, of the warmth of the sun upon the land and its rays upon my face.” She exhaled, the magnificence sprawled before her stealing her breath. “Never did I think of the night as magical, but now, because of you, I shall think of it as no other.” Pride honed his face, his expression that of a man born to guide his people, of a laird who ruled his land. He belonged in this regal, rugged landscape, his presence as necessary as the next beat of her heart.

Aedan lowered his mouth a breath above hers. “As is your presence to me. Soon, I must seek shelter from the sun’s rays, but this moment is ours.”

His deep burr rumbled through her as his mouth settled with delicate intimacy upon hers, as soft as the brush of a fairy’s wings, as heated as the lick of flame. She melted, gave to him everything he asked for and more.

With infinite tenderness, he laid her upon a bed of grass, his body covering hers, his hands guiding her with each caress as he filled her.

“Aedan,” she whispered. He made love to her slowly, exquisitely, until her body trembled out of control. His eyes held hers as he increased the pace, the intensity moving her higher, higher, until on a shudder she fell over the edge. Explosions of color swirled around her with vibrant appeal, reds, yellows, and blues on a background of radiant white as Aedan found his own release. Then she was floating, her mind warm with satisfaction, her body sated.

He rolled to the side and drew her with him.

Lulled by the steady beat of his heart, the haze of warmth within her body, she laid her head against his muscled chest. She could lie here forever.

A playful smile touched his lips. “Methinks you have forgotten your naked state.”

Stunned, she lifted her head. “Yo—”

“Removed the cloak for your comfort.”

Several replies came to mind. She wanted to scold him for his arrogance, for teasing her, but his genuine caring for her stole the words. No matter how he frustrated her, she found herself charmed.

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I knew you would be.”

“What?” she asked, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that he was right.

“Charmed.”

She shot him a cool look. “Mayhap you misread my thoughts.”

Laughter flickered in his eyes. “Nay, I heard you.”

“A braggart you are.”

“And you, my precious Rowan, are not only my mate, but the woman I love.”

His simple words destroyed her, made her ache. All her life she’d been an outcast. Men’s only need for her was due to her expertise in healing, or to make a meal for children while a wife was ill. Now, Aedan wanted her for who she was.

Humbled, Rowan took in the man who moved her, touched her life like no other. Before, she’d feared becoming a vampire, but loving Aedan, carrying their child, she now embraced the change. Aedan was the man she loved, and she wanted to stay with him forever.

Forever.

Excitement built. A wish she could have. She opened her mouth, and Aedan pressed a finger against her lips.

“Enjoy this moment,” he said, his words solemn, “the laughter shared. For now, let it be enough.”

Unease filtered through her. “I would think my wanting to become a vam—”

“Rowan. There is much you do not know. Little either of us can change.”

Reality shattered the dreams of her mind. “Because you are their laird, and I am naught but a commoner.” Rowan sat up, stared out to where the sky to the east continued to brighten, announcing the birth of a new day.

“As I told you before, my people will accept you.”

With a frown she met his watchful gaze, far from convinced. “Then what troubles you?”

Aedan closed his eyes, but not before she caught the look of pain. “ ’Tis our child.”

Panic swept her. “There is something wrong with our child?”

“Nay.”

She fought for calm as she focused on a devastating thought. “Aedan, can a human give birth to a vampire child and live?”

His expression grew grim. On an exhale, he shook his head. “No one knows.”

Chapter Five

Aedan stared up at the sky where sunlight began to outline the clouds. He damned the question of whether Rowan could give birth to a vampire child and live, damned the knowledge that in his desire to have her, he’d not weighed the fact. But standing here pondering her fate changed nothing.

“ ’Tis time to sleep,” he said, guiding her toward an interior cave, a place that would offer them shelter in its blackness and would allow him a deep, rejuvenating sleep. He waved his hand at a smooth slab of granite.

With a soft rumble, a hidden door opened.

Rowan gasped.

A smile touched his face at her stunned expression. “Go inside.”

With hesitant steps, she entered. Eyes wide, Rowan spun to face him. “The rocks are glowing.”

“Small animals live within the stone. When they sense a person’s presence, they emit light.”

Concern edged her brow as she studied the intriguing phenomena. “Has our presence upset them?”

He chuckled. “Mayhap.” Aedan guided her through the tunnel deeper beneath the mountain, then into a large room supplied with garb made from linens, silks, and satins. He withdrew a dress. “Here.”

Rowan accepted the beautiful white silk gown with hints of gold embroidered along the bodice like stardust tossed. “ ’Tis beautiful.” Humbled by the finely crafted garb, she shook her head. “I cannot accept such a splendid gift. This must belong to someone of importance.”

“Indeed.” He nodded. “To you.”

Tears misted in her eyes. “Aedan.”

He crossed to her, lifted her chin, and stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “You are the woman for whom I am destined, a woman who fills me with happiness, but more, the woman whom I will love forever.”

She gave a shaky exhale. “How can you be so sure?”

Tender eyes studied her. “Are you not sure of what you feel for me?”

“I . . .”

“I can read your thoughts, Rowan.” He brushed his lips gently over hers. “For me, ’tis the same.”

“Aedan.” Her voice trembled. “Less than two days have passed since we met. How can our feelings for each other be so strong?”

“Do we question the magnificence of a rainbow, the beauty crafted by the clash of sun and rain?”

“Nay, we accept what is given,” she whispered as if tasting the words, savoring the possibility. “I wish to believe it, except . . .”

“Rowan, you are overwhelmed.” He gave her a gentle hug. “How can you not be so with everything that has happened in so few hours? Men believing you are a witch, chasing you and wanting you dead, your meeting a vampire, one who is laird of his coven, becoming pregnant with his child, and falling in love.”

“Aye, so much has happened. So much—”

“Go and change. ’Tis time for sleep. Did you not say so yourself?”

“I did.” With a shy smile, she slipped inside the alcove.

Aedan rubbed the back of his neck. This night she could rest, but ’twould take many more to erase her doubts and allow him to overcome the challenges ahead. And there would be challenges, with his people, with the birth of their child, and with the fact that she held the blood of the fey, a fact he’d yet to explain to her. He dropped his hand.

Or should he?

Rowan still struggled with the terrors of the last two days. What good would come of adding more worries at this time? Her fey blood, her inherent strength, could indeed be her saving grace, could allow her to carry as well as bear his child. But, he wasn’t sure.

Though she’d asked him to change her into a vampire, her bearing his child was enough of a risk to her life. He dared not provoke the fairy queen by turning one of her own into a vampire. If he did, Ysenda would surely demand his death. Without his presence to protect Rowan and their child, they would face a cold world, one where neither would ever truly belong.

However much he wished to believe his people would accept Rowan, he could not be sure they would. Neither could he forget that someone had left him to die. A traitor he must find.

And kill.

Enough of the worries to come. They had this day together and part of the oncoming night. Then, he must return to his people beneath some guise, find whoever wished him dead.

Moments later, Rowan reentered clad in the white gown. Had he not known her a commoner, with her regal bearing and majestic presence, none could have convinced him she was not a queen.

A wave of tiredness brought by the arrival of the dawn settled upon him. “Come.” He took her hand, led her to the inner chamber where the scent of time and welcome sifted through the air.

Rowan’s hand tightened within his. “I cannot see.”

Of course, she lacked his sensitivities. Aedan lifted her in his arms, carried her into the next chamber deep within the earth, the power of the ancient lair warm upon his skin. With reverence, he laid with her upon a soft cushion of moss fragrant with herbs.

Rowan looked up at him, her wheat blond hair strewn about in luxurious disarray. “Though I can see naught, whatever I am lying on feels wonderful.”

“ ’Tis moss. From what I am told, it comes from a magical place.”

“Magical?” Humor wove through her words.

“Aye.” He lifted a lock of her hair, inhaled her scent. “I have missed my sojourns here. More than a year has passed since I have returned.” He would not wait so long again. Easily he could envision his future visits here, his life ahead with Rowan and their child.

“Why have you been away so long?” she asked.

“The demands on a laird are endless, but proud I am to serve my people.” Aedan lay beside her and caught her lips in a fierce kiss, then with reluctance, broke free. “Go to sleep, Rowan.”

“What if I am not tired?”

At her teasing, he smiled. “Pretend.”

She chuckled, and his heart warmed. “If ’tis your wish.”

“It is.” And so much more. “A caution: If you wake before I do, stay nearby.”

“You speak of whoever tried to kill you?” Nervousness trembled within her voice.

However much he wished to avoid the discussion, it was reality, one they must face. “Aye,” Aedan replied. “Until I find whoever is behind the attempt on my life, we must keep guard. Given the circumstances of how I was poisoned, I am confident it is a vampire, who must also seek sleep during the day. While you are with me, you will be safe. Now, close your eyes and rest.”

On a deep sigh, Rowan snuggled against him. Within moments her breathing became even.

With her womanly scent infusing his every breath, Aedan slowed his heart. After one last sweep of the surroundings with his senses to ensure they were alone, he sent his body into a deep, much needed sleep.

The glow of the setting sun against the jagged peaks surrounding Rowan bathed the time-hewn stone in a wash of red. The color seemed so vivid. Mayhap the intense hue was a unique trait of the local stone. Or, had this special mountaintop been reserved for the laird of the clan?

Aedan’s position as the Vampire Coven’s laird gave her pause. They had enough challenges to overcome without adding that she was naught but a commoner.

Through the break within the stones, she scanned the land below, how the fading sun highlighted the beauty of the mountains, glowing on the roll of fog that embraced the upper peaks. Never before had she seen such wonder.

Leaves rustled behind her, and she turned. Another burst of wind sent the leaves twisting upon the limbs of a large tree growing from the ledge.

The tree’s precarious placement should have been impossible. But as if crafted by a spell, the massive trunk rose from the cliffs, its multiple gnarled limbs like desperate arms reaching for the sky, the fog surrounding its trunk bestowing upon the entire base an otherworldly glow.

“The tree is unique, is it not?”

At the deep male voice behind her, Rowan whirled. A striking man stood several paces away, his height intimidating, his eyes deep bronze as if sparks sent by a mighty stroke of a smith’s hammer upon iron. Straight blond hair accented the sharp angle of his cheeks, his beard, and the hard line of his mouth.

Aedan’s warning to remain nearby echoed in her mind. Why had she not remained beside him until he’d awoken?

“Wh—Who are you?” she asked.

The stranger lifted a curious brow. “As it is you who are trespassing within the private grounds of the Highland Coven, ’tis a question I should be asking.”

Private grounds of the Highland Coven? Fear crawled through her. Aedan had told her this remote setting was known only to lairds and high members within his clan. This man was a vampire. From his presence, one high in rank within their clan.

On edge, she shifted to the balls of her feet in case she needed to run. “I am a friend of Aedan’s.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You know the laird?”

The laird. Heat rushed through her cheeks. Of course, why had she not thought to address Aedan as his position demanded? “My apologies at my inappropriate reference. I but woke moments ago, and my mind is a muddle.”

Curiosity spilled through the stranger’s intense gaze. He strode toward her, his steps quiet, his stride graceful, that of a man comfortable with his power. Though he was a member of Aedan’s clan, was she safe from an attack?

“ ’Twould seem you know my cousin,” he drawled. “Interesting, as never have I seen you within the walls of Caorann Castle.”

“Your cousin?”

A pace away he halted. “Aye, I am Breac MacGregor.”

Regardless of his relationship to Aedan, she still did not know whether he was someone she could trust.

A muscle worked in his jaw. “I asked if you knew the laird?”

“Aye, I . . .” How did she explain that his cousin was her lover? That she carried his laird’s child? Or, that Aedan wanted her to remain at his side despite the differences in their stations?

The vampire’s nostrils flared as he circled her once. He halted a pace before her. “You are human.” It wasn’t a question.

Throat dry, she nodded and prayed, knowing Aedan would save her.

Shrewd eyes scoured the surroundings, where the last rays of the day faded against the horizon. “How many days have you been here alone?”

“Days? Aedan only brought me here this past night.”

Shock on the vampire’s face eroded to anger, a slow fury that erased any sign of kindness. “Aedan is alive?”

“Alive? Why would he not be al—” Alarm rolled through Rowan. The only reason Breac would believe she’d remained here alone for days was if he thought Aedan had brought her here expecting to return, then had died.

Nay, was murdered, an attempt that failed.

With sickening clarity she understood. Aedan’s cousin was behind the attempt at his life. How many others were involved in his treacherous plan? Aedan!

“Where is he?!”

She shook her head. “I know not.”

Lightning quick Breac’s hand clasped her chin, angled her head from side to side. Understanding dawned within his eyes, then immense satisfaction. A slow, cruel smile settled upon his mouth.

“Mayhap you know not where he is,” Aedan’s cousin said, “but he will return.”

“Why do you believe that?” she whispered, stunned he could discern such a truth.

“There is only one reason why you would be within the ancestral retreat and unconverted. You are of great importance to my cousin.”

“I barely know him.”

“Liar, I smell your pathetic human fear and his scent upon your skin.” He jerked her forward, scraped his teeth across her flesh. Stilled. “You carry his child.”

Her fear of moments before was nothing to this blast of terror. He could not harm her child. “You do not understand.”

“As if I give a damn that my cousin is a fool.”

“I—”

“The bastard you carry will nae live, of that I assure you.”

Rowan tried to jerk free. “Nay—”

His hand shot out, connected with her jaw. The force sent her sprawling.

He stalked toward her, his face marred by bulging veins and fury. “Think you that a mere human holds any power against a vampire?”

“Nay,” she whispered, her legs trembling as she shoved to her feet, pain throbbing through her skull. “Please, do not harm my child.” Heart pounding, she focused on him, refused the urge to glance toward the cave’s entry. Aedan would awaken any moment, and then he would save her. “Please, let me go,” she said, keeping the vampire’s attention diverted from the cave. “I will tell no one of this place.”

He laughed, a cold brutal sound. “Nay, that you will not. When my cousin returns and finds you gone, he will come looking for you.”

“He will not come after me,” she said, her mind scrambling to buy precious time. Aedan!

The vampire’s lip curled with disgust. “Enough. That I have wasted a word upon a human fills me with revulsion. Aedan will come, that we both know. And this time,” he said with twisted pleasure in his voice, “he will die.”

A fog shrouded Aedan’s mind like a blanket. He mentally clawed his way to consciousness, his senses demanding he awaken. He gulped a deep breath, another. His heart kicked to life. He reached to his side.

Empty.

“Rowan?”

Silence.

A malignant unrest permeated the air, and Aedan shoved to his feet. “Rowan?”

The far off curl of wind echoed within the tunnels. Otherwise, all was morbid silence.

Mist swirled in his wake as he bolted outside. On edge, he scanned the chasm embraced by the mountains.

Naught.

He scoured the upper peaks. The moon’s edge crept into the sky, its eerie light warring with flickers of fading sunlight struggling in the wilting purple sky.

A wisp of residual anger tainted the air.

Anger? Heart pounding, he knew. Another vampire had been here, and since he’d known of this secret retreat, it had been a member of high regard within the clan. Whoever it was, he had Rowan.

Why? He dismissed the possibility that she’d been taken to feed upon. Once she explained his relation to her and that she was under his protection, any member of his clan would have left her untouched.

Or, he mused with growing dread, was whoever had taken her the same vampire who had plotted for him to die?

Aedan wanted to believe that after finding her here alone, the other vampire had taken her to his home to keep her safe until he found Aedan and discovered the truth. But a sinking feeling in his gut assured him her disappearance was due to foul play. That sixth sense had saved his life many times over; he would listen to it now.

While he’d slept, whoever had made an attempt on his life had arrived at the ancestral retreat and discovered Rowan outside. Somehow that vampire had gleaned that Aedan still lived, and had abducted her. But she’d not told her captor that Aedan slept deep inside the cave. If she had, no doubt he would now be dead.

Aedan battled the flood of rage, focused on the one who would dare to try to kill him, the same vampire who now held Rowan and their child.

Unless he’d already killed her?

Nay, if she had died, he would have sensed the loss. Their link, one that forever bound them, would have perished.

So she lived. But for how long?

Until whoever had abducted her tasted her blood, he wouldn’t know of her fey heritage. Since it was forbidden to try to change a fairy into a vampire, if whoever held Rowan tried, the fairy queen would come, and he would die.

But, what of Rowan? What of their child? Would Ysenda, the fairy queen, allow them to live? Bedamned. He must find them before it was too late!

In a blur of mist, Aedan evaporated into the night.

Chapter Six

Rowan fought her growing panic as she took in the rocky coast, the weather-beaten mountains beyond.

“Do not think you can escape from me,” Breac warned, the softness of his words, his complete control, terrifying. Judging by his actions, this vampire calculated his every move, left nothing to chance, except when it had come to killing Aedan.

In that he’d failed.

“Wh-Why do you hate Aedan?” she asked, needing to buy time to think up a plan to slip free.

“I owe you no explanation. But I find myself curious how a human has so entranced a vampire that he leaves her with child. Especially considering he is our Highland Coven’s laird.” He paused. “You have no marks on your neck. Why has my cousin not claimed you?”

“I know not.”

Again his fist shot out.

Pain slammed through her cheek. Rowan stumbled back, caught herself as she fell against the rocks. Please, let me not lose Aedan’s child!

The vampire stalked toward her. “Methinks you are a witch, a very dangerous one to have seduced a powerful laird and a vampire centuries old.”

Chills swept through her at the damning label. “I am no witch.”

“Nay?”

Tingles shivered inside her head.

He was trying to read her mind! Until Aedan had taken her blood, his powers had allowed him to mentally guide her. Naught more. But were all vampires’ powers the same? Could his cousin read her thoughts?

Long seconds passed.

Deep bronze eyes smoldered. “Something is amiss,” he said, his words slow, deliberate. “Regardless, you will serve my purpose well.”

Purpose? Whatever his depraved intent, she knew it boded ill to Aedan. Her mental calls to him had remained unanswered. However powerful this vampire, she must somehow slip away and warn Aedan. Heart pounding, Rowan shifted to the closest rock.

In a burst of speed, the vampire caged her against the rough stone. Long, dangerous fingers clenched Rowan’s wrist tightly. “Think not of escape.” He jerked her to her feet.

Waves pounded the shore in her wake as he hauled her along the rock-cluttered beach, up a narrow, winding path edged by the time-hewn cliffs. With the steep incline, it should have been a difficult trek, but he ascended the near vertical slide of land with incredible ease.

The full moon on the horizon was just rising; hours remained this night before the vampire would seek the shelter of darkness against the sun, and who knew what he would do with that time.

Aedan!

Breac lifted her over the top of the cliffs, and an enormous castle came into view. Settled upon an immense cliff, its turrets spun skyward like a potent threat. Battlements severed the moonlight, spilling jagged shadows before her. Numerous windows were carved within the grand towers, the exquisite detail an exclamation of wealth. A sturdy wall surrounded the castle, the portcullis the first of many entries one would have to traverse before passing within the stronghold.

“Caorann Castle,” Breac stated.

Aedan’s home.

Why was Aedan’s cousin bringing her here? How was he going to explain her presence? Did any of that really matter? His cousin wanted her dead.

A gatehouse rose within the scarred wall, the blackened entry foreboding, the iron gate securing the portal like jagged teeth.

He waved his hand. Metal creaked, and with slow menace, the forged iron lifted.

How strong were this vampire’s powers? As laird of his coven, wouldn’t Aedan be still more powerful?

“Move.” Breac tugged her forward.

Eyes blurring with exhaustion, her legs threatening to give way, Rowan pushed forward.

With each step, she saw more of the immense castle, the sturdy building as formidable as their laird. She could envision Aedan within this powerful stronghold; his compassion and intelligence would make him a leader loved and revered. However much he believed otherwise, she did not fit in his world.

And never would.

Panic consumed her as she scanned the remainder of this intimidating fortress. Where was Aedan? With the moon ascending in the sky, he must be awake. And, with their blood bond, why hadn’t he tracked her? Or, was there another unknown factor she hadn’t considered?

They entered the bailey.

The vampires working inside stopped to stare.

A vampire with a long, white beard and bushy brows broke from a small group. With a nod, he strode toward them.

Pulse racing, Rowan watched the elder’s approach. Was he part of Lord Breac’s twisted plan to kill Aedan? Would she be handed over to him to die?

The elder vampire ignored her as he halted before them, an anxious expression on his face. “You have found The MacGregor?”

“Nay, Sir Wayrn,” Breac replied, anger riding his voice, “but I have found the cause of our laird’s disappearance.”

The elder glanced toward her. Wizened eyes flickered with surprise. “This human?”

“Human mayhap, but also a witch,” Breac stated.

Unsure what ill Breac was about, Rowan shook her head. “I am nae a witch, nor have I done anything to your laird. If there is any treachery about, ’tis by—”

Breac hauled her up before his face. “Do nae speak unless given permission.”

Trembling, Rowan laid her hands over her stomach, where her child grew.

Bushy brows lifted. “The human lass carries a babe?”

“Aye,” Breac hissed, his fingers unfurling from her garb. “Aedan’s.”

The elder’s face paled. “It cannot be. Never would our laird leave a bastard child, especially not with a human.”

“Aye, on that I agree. The lass must have bewitched him.” Breac’s fingers twisted in her hair, jerked her head back. “Tell Sir Wayrn.”

Fear shot through Rowan, and her legs threatened to give. Lies, cast by the man who’d attempted to kill his cousin. But if she told the truth, she and her babe would die. She must stall.

At her silence, Breac’s eyes darkened to a dangerous hue.

Shaking, she nodded. “ ’Tis the truth.”

The elder stumbled back as if punched. “To place one’s seed within a human is unthinkable for us. Never has such been done.”

“Aye, which brings up a far greater concern.” Grief slashed the anger on Breac’s face. “Never would Aedan betray us unless the lass bewitched our laird with a spell of enormous strength.” He paused. “I fear my cousin is no longer of sound mind.”

The elder’s face paled further.

“Sir Wayrn, gather the coven,” Breac said. “I will explain everything then.”

“Aye.” With one last glare at her, Sir Wayrn spun on his heel and hurried off.

Never had a vampire slept with a human? Sir Wayrn’s words echoed in Rowan’s mind as Breac hauled her toward the massive steps of the keep. Aedan’s belief that they were mates explained his actions. He was proud of his heritage and his people. Never would he betray them.

Fury built, blinding her to fear. “ ’Twas you who drugged Aedan,” she charged, “and then left him within the stone circle to die. Well you understood that the circle would drain a vampire’s power and if he awoke, he would be unable to leave.”

Violent lines slashed Breac’s face. He caught her hands, jerked them behind her back.

Pain screamed up her arms.

“I see my cousin has done more than filled your belly with his spawn,” he seethed. “He told a human what is forbidden.”

“Mayhap,” she replied, “but I saved his life, whereas you tried to murder him.”

He grunted. “As if any will hear your claim.” Breac withdrew a strip of cloth from a side pocket, secured it around her mouth with a hard yank. “Lass, if I were you, my worries would not be for Aedan, but for the few moments left of your pathetic life.”

“Nay!” Rowan screamed, but the cloth muffled her cry.

“Enough.” A crowd gathered as Breac hauled her up the steps to the keep. Curious stares mixed with excited whispers.

Her body trembling, she scanned the bailey, then looked toward the gatehouse where they’d entered a short time before. It was now blocked by the growing horde.

Breac raised his hand.

Expectant silence descended upon the throng.

“This night I bring disturbing news.” Breac’s voice boomed within the castle walls. “In my search for The MacGregor, I found this woman, who is responsible for our laird’s disappearance.”

“How can a human have any power over a vampire?” a vampire near the front yelled.

“Aye,” several vampires grumbled in agreement. The doubts on the faces of those within the crowd showed they were far from convinced.

Breac scanned the throng, bronze eyes narrowing. “This lass is not a simple human, but a witch!”

“A witch powerful enough to bewitch our laird?” a wizened man near the front challenged. “The MacGregor is many centuries old, his power legendary.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.

“How can a witch,” the vampire continued, “however strong, cast a spell over Aedan?”

At their doubts, hope filled Rowan. Aedan’s people loved him, respected him; they would not abandon him because of a few words cast by his cousin.

“Like you, I too held doubts, until I discovered an astonishing truth!” Breac placed his hand over her belly. “Aye,” he roared as he glared at those before him, “she carries our laird’s child!

Outraged gasps echoed from the crowd.

“Nay,” a woman rushed out, “ ’tis an untruth!”

Breac shoved her before him, his hold cruel upon her wrist. “Lass, is it not true?” he called out. “Do you nae carry the child of our laird?” He leaned close to her hear and whispered, “Nod in agreement or die now!”

Tears burning her eyes, Rowan nodded, willing to do anything to buy time until Aedan could arrive.

“ ’Tis truth,” a woman near the back hissed.

“Aye,” a man nearby choked out. “The blasted she-devil has enormous power.”

Outrage exploded within the crowd, and satisfaction settled upon Breac’s face.

Nauseous, Rowan turned away from Breac. Why would he not be pleased? He wanted to become their laird, would do whatever was necessary to become the clan’s leader, including trying to kill his cousin.

Except, Aedan lived.

A fact he knew, a problem he was determined to extinguish by convincing his people Aedan was bewitched, not of sound mind. But when Aedan appeared, he would expose the truth, and Breac’s treachery would fail.

“A witch,” Breac continued, dragging her from her desperate thoughts, “one who believes herself cunning. Her personal goals must be lofty indeed.”

“What would a witch be wanting with our laird or his child?” called an elder with a scarred face in the front.

Breac turned toward her. “To claim the power of being his wife. But never will she achieve her twisted goal.”

A rugged-looking vampire in the back stepped forward. “Where is our laird?”

“I am still searching for him. Worry not, I will find him. But—” Breac gave a frustrated shake of his head. “—I dinnae know how to break the spell she has cast upon The MacGregor.” He nodded toward several elders at the side of the crowd. “Oh, wise ones, ’tis guidance I seek.”

Angry brows furrowed as the white-haired vampires huddled and whispered amongst themselves.

With a slight limp, a tall vampire stepped from the group, his face drawn. “My lord, we know of no way to break the witch’s spell.”

Breac blew a hard breath. “As I feared.”

Feared? Anger slammed Rowan at the lies Breac had told, the gullibility of Aedan’s people to condemn their laird without proof! Was their loyalty to their laird, a man who would sacrifice his life for them, shredded with fears of a powerful witch? She waited for others to challenge Breac. She could see that many were far from convinced, but they remained silent.

Eyes filled with tears, Breac scanned the crowd. “ ’Tis with great sadness and regret that I inform you, if our laird still lives, his mind has been tainted by a spell that may be impossible to remove. And,” he said, his voice trembling, “if indeed my cousin returns, he must be turned away. If he refuses . . .” He shook his head as if he dredged the words from a battered soul. “Our laird must die.”

Chapter Seven

Aedan must die? Blackness threatened, but Rowan clung to consciousness—barely.

Grief ravaged the faces of the vampires below, as whispers rumbled amongst the crowd. But as the moments passed, Rowan could see their struggle with doubt fade. One by one, in unspoken agreement, they accepted Breac’s lie that Aedan could no longer continue as their laird.

Sir Wayrn stepped forward, the weight of this grave matter lining his face. “Breac, will you lead us?”

Breac drew himself up to his full height, scanned the crowd, his face hewn in a somber cast. “Aye, ’tis my honor, one I take with a heavy heart.”

Rowan fought to break free, glaring at Aedan’s cousin when her every attempt failed. Damn him, somehow she had to stop him.

As the crowd’s vile cures tainted the air, Breac shoved her before him. “The witch will pay for her treachery. Before the oncoming dawn, she will die!”

“There is no need to wait,” a vampire with a scar across his jaw said, his fangs lengthening. “Toss her down. We will see to her death.”

Cheers rose from the throng, and hunger burned in their eyes.

“She has made us suffer by cursing our laird and friend, and suffering will be her fate,” Breac stated. “Have a fire built within the center of the bailey.”

No! Rowan struggled against Breac’s hold; one of his fingernails dug deep into the pulse at her neck. She stilled.

“Is it your wish to die now?” Breac hissed. “I assure you, if I slashed your neck and cast you into the crowd, my people would gladly feed upon you. I believe ’tis their wish.”

Heart pounding, Rowan shook her head.

Wood clunked.

She glanced across the bailey. Vampires piled branches at the center. Small limbs were quickly covered with sturdy logs, which would burn for hours.

“You see your penance ahead, a death that will be painfully slow,” Breac said with a laugh, the boom of his voice echoing out to the crowd. “Let me keep you waiting no longer.” He shoved her down the steps.

The vampires parted before them, cursing her, yelling inventive tortures to add before her death.

The stacked wood grew as they closed in on her. Tremors rippled over her skin at the thought of flames scorching her.

Strong arms eagerly claimed her from Breac’s hold. “Bewitching our laird,” Sir Wayrn charged. “A fitting death for you.” He slid ropes around her wrists, her legs, jerked tight.

Hemp bit into her flesh. Focus. Aedan!

Silence.

No, their blood connected them. He had to hear her! Aedan, help, they are going to burn me!

Where are you? Rage echoed within his voice as it burst into the mayhem swirling in her mind.

Caorann Castle!

Mist exploded a pace away. Aedan stood within the fade of white, his face carved in furious outrage. Striding forward, he tore off Rowan’s gag.

Air, fresh, cool, slid down her throat.

Breac whirled, cursed. “Guards, light the fire!” He dove onto Aedan.

Pain tore through Aedan’s body as his cousin drove him against the ground.

Straddled atop him, Breac reached toward his chest.

Outraged his cousin would dare attempt to tear out his heart, Aedan caught Breac’s wrist. Bones cracked, shattering beneath his raw force. “Bedamned your betrayal!”

“Aedan!” Rowan screamed.

Aedan glanced over.

Vampires had cast torches at the base of the wood stacked below Rowan. It caught, roared to life. The stench of smoke filled the air.

By the sword’s blade! He catapulted his cousin back, shoved to his feet, and lunged toward her.

In midair, Breac tackled him. With a powerful force, his cousin hurled him against the keep.

Shouts of warning echoed through the bailey as their clan encircled them, creating an arena for them to spar.

With a curse he glanced toward Rowan.

Her face paled against the growing flames, her eyes betraying the belief she would die.

Nay! Aedan shoved Breac away, bolted toward the flames, the crowd parting before him. Heat singed the air; smoke billowed around him, the stench of it thick. Aedan severed the ties holding Rowan and leapt with her well away from the dangerous spew of flames.

“You are safe,” he whispered, cradling her against his chest.

“Aedan,” she whispered, her body trembling, “I-I thought I was going to die.”

Unease rippled through the throng as the vampires watched them.

Aware that until he’d dealt with his cousin, she was far from safe, Aedan set her down. “Stay here. I must—”

Feet plowed into his chest. Aedan stumbled back.

Breac’s lengthened nails dug into Aedan’s flesh as they rolled upon the earth. His blood and Breac’s melded with dirt.

“You will nae save her!” his cousin yelled.

Using Breac’s momentum, Aedan rolled him onto his back and pinned his arms. Chest heaving, he glared at him. “She has done naught!”

“Aye, she has tainted you,” he spat, “left you crazed and unfit to be our laird.”

Several vampires nearby watched Aedan with suspicion, and sadness poured through Aedan. In his lust to become laird, his cousin had become twisted, lost in his greed for power. Worse, Breac had poisoned the minds of their people, with lies he must dispel.

Regardless of their bond of blood, as long as Breac remained at Caorann Castle, he would seek to undermine Aedan’s position if not attempt to kill both him and Rowan. Though they had spent their youth together, lads who had played tricks on others as they’d grown, then men who’d turned to each other for advice, it changed naught. However much he loved his cousin, Breac must leave.

“You are forbidden ever to return to the Highland Coven,” Aedan commanded. “And fortunate that I have not killed you for your attempt on Rowan’s life, or for the lies you have spoken.”

Breac hesitated, then tears blurred his eyes. “God’s teeth, Aedan. What have I done?” He looked away. “You are my blood, yet . . . Shamed I am. More than you will ever know.” Several tears fell. “Please, I beg you, give me one more chance.”

Aedan remained silent. Before this day he would have. Nae any longer.

Breac’s body grew limp as if he’d given up, as if he understood the travesty he’d committed. However much Aedan detested Breac’s banishment, ’twas his cousin’s actions that had made it imperative. He released his cousin, shoved to his feet. “Be gone.”

Without comment, Breac dragged himself to his feet. After one last look of regret, he stumbled toward the portcullis.

Exhausted, tired of the treachery from his own kin, Aedan turned to Rowan. At her tired smile, his heart warmed. She would—

Air burst from his lungs. Breac’s elongated nails sliced his back. Furious, Aedan turned.

The blur of his cousin flashed past.

Rowan screamed.

Aedan whirled.

Breac stood before the roar of flames, his body marred by cuts and bruises, a malignant smile deforming his face. At his feet, Rowan’s body lay twisted, her neck slashed, her blood pumping upon the earth.

Aedan stared in disbelief at the woman he loved, the woman who moved him like no other, the woman his cousin was trying to kill. Anger so hot, so feral it held its own life, filled him. He lifted his eyes to Breac.

“For this you will die!” With a roar, Aedan attacked his cousin, each slash of his flesh satisfying, the burn of betrayal guiding his every swing.

“You are unfit to lead us,” Breac seethed as his blow sent Aedan stumbling back.

“Nay,” Aedan snarled as he sprang forward, damning each second lost before he could reach Rowan. “That honor belongs to you!” He slashed his cousin’s chest, reached in, tore.

Shock fragmented Breac’s face as he looked down. Blood, dark and ugly, spilled from the ragged flesh. Inside, an empty cavity gaped where once had lain his heart.

As if in slow motion, Breac lifted his head, stared at the pumping red mass upon Aedan’s palm. “What have you done?”

“Killed a traitor.”

A feral smile wavered upon his cousin’s face. “I may die, but so will the lass and your child.”

With a curse, Aedan threw his cousin’s heart into the air. He focused. A swirl of mist enveloped the heart, and then it exploded in flames. The stench of blood permeated the air. Sickened, damning what must be done, he turned to the body of his cousin. Breac’s eyes were now empty, staring at nothing.

Aedan focused.

Mist swirled over Breac’s body, then flames ignited, the heat intense, the smoke thickening to a dense haze. The flutter of a cool breeze tumbled past, and the churn of white cleared. Where once his cousin had lain, only a blackened outline remained, all that was left of a man he had loved since they were young lads.

Rowan! Aedan ran to her, knelt at her side. Her wheat blond lashes flickered open.

A frown shimmered upon her face. “Ae-Aedan?”

Her pain-filled whisper cut deep. On a rough swallow, he took in the gash across her neck, her blood congealing upon the earth, her eyes growing pale as she struggled to breathe. His body shook as he drew her into his arms.

She was dying.

Nay, he could not lose her now! He stared at the sky bright with the pulse of stars, at the heavens so filled with life. Whoever he needed to beg to spare her life, he would.

He stroked his thumb across her brow. “I am here.”

“I-I love you.” Her lids wobbled as she struggled to keep them open. “If I do not—”

“Do nae speak. You must save your strength.”

Rowan closed her eyes, fought the wash of agony, the lure of blackness that offered relief. It would be easy to give in, but to do so would be to embrace death.

Death?

Nay, immortality.

Hope spiraled. “Aedan, co—convert me into a vampire. It is the only way to save me, to save our child.”

Strain etched his face as he took her hand, pressed a kiss upon its palm, his own shaking. “If I try,” he whispered, his voice raw with self-condemnation, “you may die.”

“What?”

“There might be another way,” he said. “ ’Tis possible you can heal yourself.”

Heal herself? Another wash of pain rolled through her. Rowan rode the tide until it ebbed. “You ar-are making little sense.”

“At the cave,” Aedan explained, his words rushed, “when we made love, I discovered you are part fey.”

“Part fey?”

“Aye. Your ancestors are from the Otherworld. Your ability to heal is more than a gift, but a consequence of your heritage. Fairy blood holds the ability to heal.”

Her eyes widened. “I am a fairy?

“Half.”

“Ho-How . . .” She fought the meld of confusion and pain, but clung to his impossible claim. “How can one be half fairy?”

“Rowan, at this moment ’tis unimportant.” He brought her hand to his cheek, pressed his own atop. “You must look within yourself, draw from your inherent strength, from your ability to heal and repair your wounds.”

“I . . .” Her world blurred. She gasped, struggled to breathe.

“Rowan!”

Aedan’s voice echoed from a distance. She clung to his outrageous claim. Her lifetime of difficulties trying to fit in with her clansmen, her instinctive knowledge of where a person was wounded and the herb to heal all made sense now. ’Twas simple: How could she fit in when she was not of this world?

“Rowan!”

From far away, a desperate voice echoed. Hands rubbed over her skin, and then the coolness of a cloth swept across her neck.

Use the powers of the fey to heal yourself!

Murky blackness weighted her chest as she fought to breath. Could she heal herself? Rowan focused on points within her body where the pain built, discerned what must be done.

Heat grew within her, a slow spiral that sent waves of tingling along her skin. The sensation of tissue weaving together filled her.

“Aedan?” she whispered.

At her feeble words, Aedan’s heart stumbled. “Rowan?” Though she’d embraced her fey powers, had begun the healing process within, he sensed her body’s struggles. She was bleeding out faster than she could repair the damage.

She could not die!

As if to mock his wishes, her skin grew deathly pale, and the heartbeat of their child became pathetically weak.

Regardless of her fey blood, she was not strong enough to repair her damaged body. In but moments, Rowan’s and his child’s lives would end.

The crowd edged closer, their whispers rising to an uneasy murmur.

Furious, Aedan glanced up, surveyed their belligerent eyes and scowling faces. His people held doubts of his lucidity, were unsure because of the lies spewed by his cousin suggesting that he was caught beneath Rowan’s spell.

Why had he not suspected Breac from the start? He exhaled. Because he’d thought of him as a brother, had never believed his cousin capable of such treachery. And like those around him, he’d been wrong.

Aedan quelled his anger. His people had questions; How could they not? The laws under which they lived and their belief in their laird’s sanity had been cast into doubt.

He clasped Rowan’s hand within his own, scanned his people. “I am nae bewitched.” He kept each word steady. His people needed a confident voice, to hear the laird they knew, one who had served them with all his heart. “Breac lied to you in his attempt to become laird of the Highland Coven. Several days past, he poisoned me with foxglove, then left me in a stone circle to die.”

Whispers filtered through the crowd, and they glanced toward his cousin’s charred remains.

At Rowan’s rough breath, Aedan glanced down. “There is no time to explain. You must trust me in my decisions.”

“The woman is nae a witch?” asked an elder vampire close by.

“Nay,” he replied. “She saved my life. Now, I must save hers.”

“But . . .” Sir Wayrn stepped forward, stroked his long, white beard. “You told the lass she was half fey.”

Aedan nodded. “She is.”

The elder paused. “ ’Tis forbidden to try to convert a fairy into a vampire.”

And no one knew whether trying would kill her, Aedan silently added. “Her human side will change. As for the rest, I am unsure.” He held Sir Wayrn’s gaze. “If the ancient law proves true, and my trying to change Rowan brings Ysenda, the Queen of the Otherworld, ’tis a risk I will take.”

“You would give your life for a human woman?” Sir Wayrn asked.

Aedan nodded. “Aye.”

Another gasp shuddered through his people.

When faced with losing the woman he loved, he did not give a damn about his own life. Aedan focused on Rowan. She was his world; without her his days meant naught. “Rowan will live and bear my son.”

The pulse at the base of Rowan’s neck grew erratic.

Stilled.

On a curse, Aedan sank his fangs deep within her neck. Her rich blood sang through his body, a force unlike any he’d ever known. Within the cave she’d dripped her life-giving essence upon his tongue. He’d experienced the power, the healing properties of her blood, but ’twas only a pittance compared to his drinking straight from her.

With each swallow, his body strengthened.

With each swallow, she and his child died.

Her heart, his son’s, ceased.

His mind a maze of terror and determination, he slashed his fingernail across his chest, pressed her mouth against him and willed her to drink.

She lay unmoving.

Drink!

Her body shuddered.

He would not lose her! Rowan, drink from me now!

She gasped, the slightest sound, but to him it was a miracle. Her lips, unsure in their innocence, drew unsteadily as they sought his lifesaving blood. Her throat worked. Swallowed. Seconds later, she took another drink.

Within the fragile quiet, her heart stumbled, then began to beat. A second later, their son’s shuddered to life.

Hands shaking, Aedan cupped her head, guided her as she fed, continued to mentally encourage her. Soon her body would begin its change. Because his son already held vampire blood, odds were their child would live through the conversion.

Naught but time would tell if Rowan’s body would endure the transition. Would her fey side reject the advance of the vampire blood?

If so, she would die.

Shaking, Aedan smoothed his hand through her rumpled hair. Rowan’s feeble efforts shifted into a steady draw, but the paleness of her face exposed her struggle.

Confident she’d taken enough for the conversion, he lifted her mouth away, laid her gently back, then sealed the cut. Gently, he lifted her in his arms. “Rowan, I am—”

The air exploded around them with an angry boil. A pulse of energy, raw with fury, threw him. Hewn stones quaked as he slammed against the castle wall.

With a roar, he sprang to the ground in search of his attacker.

Another blast tossed him back. Cursing, he stood. Stilled.

Paces away, from within the vortex of power, stepped a woman, her alabaster skin flawless, her stature regal. The air around her churned with luminescent shimmers like diamonds.

Ysenda, the fairy queen.

The ancient law was true!

Outraged violet eyes narrowed, focused on Aedan. Her every movement carved with fury, the Queen of the Otherworld strode forward. A pace away, she halted. “Aedan MacGregor, Laird of the Highland Vampire Coven, you dare try to convert one the fey!”

Frustration mixed with anger as Aedan held the queen’s gaze. He gave a slight nod. “Ysenda, Fairy Queen of the Otherworld. ’Twas never my intent to bring harm to one within your care, nor to challenge ancient laws.”

Rowan’s body shuddered within Aedan’s arms, and her breathing grew weak. By the sword’s blade, her conversion had begun!

“Rowan was dying,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “ ’Twas the only way to save her.”

“Save her?” Disbelief took over Ysenda’s expression as she examined Rowan. Her gaze riveted on him. “Well is it known such an act is forbidden by ancient law, that such an attempt could lead to the fairy’s death. And”—she raised her arms, her eyes as stormy as the swirl of night—“it is an act that will now lead to yours!”

Chapter Eight

Against the haze of agony, Rowan struggled to remain conscious. She heard the echo of a woman’s voice declaring that Aedan had broken an ancient law, and heard her threat to kill him.

Nay, he could not die!

On a trembling breath, Rowan fought to open her eyes, to make her mouth form the words within her mind. “Wait! Do nae kill him!”

At her pain-roughened words, the regal woman hesitated. A shudder whipped through Rowan as she battled to remain conscious, to remember how Aedan had addressed this regal woman. Ysenda, Fairy Queen of the Otherworld.

Against the full moon, the fairy queen frowned, her perfection outlined in a silvery glow as if of diamonds cast, her golden gown bright against the dark backdrop of vampires crowded within the bailey.

Disbelieving eyes met hers. “You of the fairy world,” Ysenda boomed, “who have been condemned to nocturnal life and savagery, you would save a vampire?”

“They are not savages,” Rowan replied. Despite her fear, Aedan’s claim that she was half fey echoed within her mind. Her heart ached. In his attempt to save her, he’d broken an ancient law, a fact he’d ignored at the risk of his own life.

Humbled by his selfless act, loving him with her every breath, Rowan felt tears fill her eyes. “Before I met Aedan, I believed the same, ex-except he is a fair man, one who cares for his people, who harms none unless he must to protect his own. Savagery?” She shook her head. “Nay, vampires take only what is necessary to live, and leave those who sustain them well and ignorant of the event.”

A well-manicured royal brow lifted. “Now you champion our natural enemy?”

“Our enemy?” Rowan battled a wave of weakness. “Wo-Would an enemy risk his life to save a fo-foe?”

The queen’s mouth thinned. “Why else would a coven’s laird dare transform one of the fey if not out of a desire to control her powers?”

“For love,” Aedan stated.

The fairy queen whirled, the outrage in her eyes striking Aedan. “Love?”

“Aye,” he said. “I love Rowan with all my heart.” The vampires crowding the bailey gasped, but he ignored them. “She is but an innocent caught up in my cousin’s twisted attempt to become our coven’s laird.”

“How did she ever become involved in a power struggle for lairdship of the Highland Vampire Coven?” the queen demanded.

“My cousin poisoned me and left me for dead. Rowan found me and saved my life. When my cousin discovered her and learned of our bond, he abducted Rowan. In an attempt to place doubt upon my ability to be laird, he brought her to my home, Caorann Castle. For proof, he labeled her a witch and claimed she’d cast a spell upon me.”

Skepticism was plain in the queen’s eyes. “This does nae explain the need to challenge ancient law by attempting to convert her into a vampire.”

“When I found Rowan, my cousin had her tied to the stake to burn.”

Ysenda took in the roar of flames within the bailey. The fire popped and cracked as burning branches collapsed.

“I saved her,” Aedan said, “but not before my cousin slashed her neck. Had I not tried to save her, she would be dead.”

“You have nae saved her.” Scorn layered the fury within the fairy queen’s voice. “All you have given her is more pain. In the end she will die.”

His entire world stilled. “I was told the outcome of converting a fairy to a vampire is unknown. And therein lies the potential for hope.”

“Mayhap,” Ysenda replied. “But the blood of the vampire is a natural enemy of the fey. How can the outcome nae be death?”

“Because,” Aedan replied, emotion roughening his words, “Rowan is only half fey. Her other half is human.”

The queen’s face paled. “Half human? Such a bond is forbidden.”

He held her gaze, allowing his anger free reign. Could Ysenda not see Rowan was suffering? “I know not the details, but my hope is that with the diluting of Rowan’s fairy blood, there is a chance she will survive.”

“You overstep your boundaries, Laird.”

“Mayhap,” he stated, his voice hard, “but to save Rowan’s life, it is a step I would take again.” People exchanged uneasy glances within the crowd. Questions, aye they would have them. Another issue to attend to in a mounting pile, ones he would take care of once he knew Rowan’s fate.

Rowan trembled within his arms, gasped, her garb clinging to her sweat-soaked skin.

“Regardless of the broken law, Rowan has begun to change. Unless you strike me dead, I am taking her to my chamber. And if it is within my power, I will save her life.” Furious, half expecting a bolt of lightning to strike him dead, Aedan envisioned the swirl of fog.

“Laird MacGregor,” the fairy queen called.

“Queen Ysenda, Sir Wayrn will escort you to my chamber to supervise if you wish.” Aedan’s body shattered into mist, bringing Rowan’s with it. He flew, then rematerialized inside his chamber.

Oblivious to the luxury of silk and velvets gracing the walls and the thick woven rugs crafted with intricate detail, he laid Rowan upon his bed. With a wave of his hand, he slammed the windows shut, severing the moonlight, extinguishing the flicker of torchlight, banishing any illumination that might increase Rowan’s sensitivity to pain.

“Aedan!” she gasped.

He knelt beside her, brushed away the sweat-laden hair clinging to her brow. “I am here.”

“Ev . . .” She panted, gave a soft groan. “Everything aches.”

“Aye, ’tis your body purging your human traits.” He damned her agony, knowing the torment to come would be worse, much worse, before he knew whether her fey blood would reject the vampire and end her life.

The whoosh of the door had him glaring over his shoulder.

The fairy queen entered. Her gaze collided with his. “You dare much.”

“For Rowan,” he said with a deadly whisper, “I dare anything.”

A soft cry escaped Rowan’s lips. “Aedan?”

He turned. Paleness washed Rowan’s skin, a translucence so sheer the whisper blue veins beneath her skin lay exposed. “I am here.” Hand trembling, he picked up a damp cloth from a nearby bowl, then wiped it over her brow. “You are beginning the conversion.”

Her mouth worked, then she swallowed. “Ho—How long will it take?”

Agony cut through her whisper and tore him in two. “No one knows.”

“No one knows,” Ysenda stated, “as no one has been foolish enough to dare try to change one of the fey.”

At the coolness within the fairy queen’s voice, Aedan leveled his gaze upon her.

“But,” the fairy queen continued, “your fairy blood will speed the process. A day, two at most.”

Unless Rowan died.

The fairy queen did not need to say the words. The reality haunted him like a curse.

Rowan arched upon the sprawl of blankets. “Ae-Aedan, ’tis like my body is on fire!”

Again he wiped the square of sodden cloth over her brow. “Aye, ’twill pass.”

On a moan, Rowan twisted upon his massive bed.

Never had Aedan felt so helpless. Watching her suffer, her body raw with agony, he understood fear for the first time.

With a scream, Rowan collapsed upon the bed.

Queen Ysenda walked over, sighed. “She has passed out. A blessing.”

Aedan glanced up. The fairy queen’s compassion seemed at odds with the woman he’d first met. “Aye.” Now there was nothing to do but wait to see if Rowan would live.

Angst stormed him as the long seconds passed. He willed the passage of time, damned the same.

He pressed a soft kiss upon her brow and wished for a miracle. “I love you, Rowan.”

“I find your sentiment interesting,” Ysenda said.

Frustration at the situation spilled through him, and he shoved to his feet. “Why did you not kill me?”

“It was Rowan’s wish to allow you to live. A request I am unsure I can grant.”

He arched a brow. “I am surprised you would consider her request.”

“As am I.”

Silence stumbled between them as they watched Rowan.

Unsure what to say, if the right words could even be found, he rubbed the back of his neck. Aedan shot Ysenda a cool look. “I am amazed Rowan was allowed to live among the humans, considering she is only half of their blood.”

Silence.

He glanced over.

Sadness touched Ysenda’s face as she stared at Rowan’s limp form upon the bed. “ ’Tis because I did not know of her existence before this night.”

She had not known? “I thought you knew all within your realm of the Otherworld.”

“I believed so as well.” She paused, her eyes dark with struggle and questions. “Did Rowan say naught of her mother or father?”

Unsure why Ysenda asked, he nodded. “She explained that as a babe, a man claiming to be her father dropped her off at the healer’s home. He’d said Rowan’s mother had died giving birth.”

“Did the healer know the mother as well?”

“Nay, naught except she was not from the Highlands.”

Understanding dawned on Ysenda’s face, then shifted to sadness. “Of course. That explains everything.”

“Everything?”

Queen Ysenda nodded. “When Rowan’s mother learned she was with child, she fled the Otherworld.”

“Because the father of the babe was human?”

“Aye,” Queen Ysenda replied. “Because he was a human, I forbid her ever to see him again.”

“Why did you not seek their child—Rowan—out?” Aedan asked.

“I could not sense the child’s existence, because her fey blood was weakened by her human side. But, when you changed Rowan, the natural repelling action of our blood against yours sent ripples through the heavens which I picked up, however faint.”

He nodded. “Aye, that makes sense. A mess indeed.”

“More so than you understand,” she said. “But my daughter, as well as her child, ’twould seem, walked outside the lines of convention when they chose the men they would love.”

He stilled. “Your daughter?”

“Aye.” Violet eyes leveled on him. “ ’Twas my daughter that ran away.”

Chapter Nine

Aedan stared at the fairy queen in shock. “Rowan is your granddaughter?”

“Indeed she is,” Ysenda said with quiet regard, “and a princess.”

“I—I know not what to say.”

“I assure you,” Ysenda replied, “this day has offered enough confusion for us all.”

“Aye, it has.” Aedan now saw the similarities between Ysenda and her granddaughter. Both had strong features. The pure white hair of the queen was a luxurious mass, the same texture as Rowan’s wheat blond locks.

There were so many questions to ask. From the bewilderment on the fairy queen’s face, she wished answers as well. Except, with the approach of dawn, questions would have to wait.

“Dawn approaches, and I must sleep. It will be alongside Rowan.” The queen’s mouth tightened, but on this point he refused to yield. “With my bond to Rowan,” Aedan continued before she could speak, “I will be able to provide her protection even in sleep.”

Ysenda arched a doubtful brow. “A guarantee of nothing.”

“ ’Tis a guarantee that I will give my life to protect hers.”

Tense silence echoed through the room.

“Rowan may not live through the conversion.” Ysenda’s voice trembled at the last.

“She will.” He swallowed hard. “I love her and cannot lose her!”

“We do not always receive what we wish.”

“You think I do not understand that?” He raised his hand at his outburst. “My apologies. I love Rowan. If there is anything I can do to save her, I will.”

Ysenda remained silent.

He had not really expected a reply. He might as well say the rest of it. “If Rowan survives, I request her hand in marriage. With your permission.”

“Permission?” she scoffed. “We are natural enemies. A union between you and Rowan is forbidden.”

“Laws of the fey. Rowan is but half fairy. She carries my child. And, she is my mate.”

Ysenda’s face hardened. “Mate?” She waved away his reply when he started to speak. “Regardless of what I believe, your reasons change naught.”

“Love is nae fair in whom it chooses. For whatever reason, I have been gifted with Rowan’s. I ask for your permission out of courtesy, in hopes that peace can be found between our worlds.” He paused. “ ’Tis your choice to end the strife or allow an age-old animosity to continue.”

“I do nae know if I can allow such.”

Frustration coupled with tiredness. “You have lost one daughter who sought but to follow her heart. Would you risk a granddaughter newly found?”

Anger flared in the queen’s eyes and then faded. “The decision is not an easy one.”

“As Laird of the Highland Coven, I will win many an enemy by choosing Rowan to be my wife.”

Ysenda studied him long and hard. “If I allow my granddaughter to wed you, many will be furious in the Otherworld as well.”

“For Rowan, I shall risk the outrage of my people,” Aedan replied. “What of you?”

She gave a weary sigh. “I have much to consider.”

He nodded, pleased Ysenda would contemplate his marriage to Rowan. “For now our thoughts must be on Rowan.”

The fairy queen nodded. “Indeed. Sleep. I will be outside.”

“You will stay within Caorann Castle?”

“Aye.” Violet eyes narrowed. “If Rowan dies, so shall you.” With a sweep of her hand, iridescent smoke whirled around her, and she vanished.

Aedan sagged against his chamber wall, stunned by the events of the last few hours, amazed Rowan’s grandmother had not killed him outright.

He studied Rowan.

Her chest remained still. After passing out from the torment of the conversion, she’d succumbed to the deep sleep of a vampire, and all her internal systems had shut down. He refused to believe her body was giving up, that instead of moving through the conversion process, she was dying.

Heart aching at Rowan’s desperate state, he lay beside her and drew her into his arms. “Sleep deeply. When you awaken, your transformation will be complete.” Aedan closed his eyes and prayed he’d spoken the truth.

Agony pummeled Rowan’s body, torturous lashes that stung her over and over, only to begin again. Aedan! His name echoed through her mind, but she couldn’t see him or hear him within the blanket of misery. She struggled to push through the hurt, only to lose herself where naught existed but pain.

The fey within her recognized the truth—she was dying.

Rowan worked to hear the sound of her child’s heart. Failed. He could not die!

She fought for calm, to retain her grip on sanity. Aedan!

Silence.

Panic overwhelmed her as she tried to push through the foggy confusion to somehow reach Aedan. A rush of sound filled her mind like bubbles. Without warning, coolness tumbled over her. Exhausted, Rowan sagged back and found herself standing within a mist.

Framed between breaks of white, fields of potent green unfolded before her.

She frowned. Where was she?

In the distance, a light grew, and a soft hum began, beckoning her.

Curious, Rowan took a step forward. Stunned, she stopped. The pain had disappeared.

“Nor will you ever hurt again.”

She shielded her eyes against the bright light where a voice echoed. “Who is there?”

“Your destiny.”

Peace radiated from the voice, so soft, so luxurious, it lured her to relax. “My destiny?” None of this made sense. She struggled to remember why she’d hurt so much, but found naught except for the image of Aedan.

“His life is elsewhere.”

Rowan walked toward the brightness. “Who are you?”

“You know.”

With a frown Rowan glanced around, took in the soft hues, the scent of lavender mixed with that of the wildflowers of her youth. Memories stumbled through her mind, beautiful images she’d seen during her life, the rush of a waterfall as it cascaded into a deep pool, the waves of the ocean as they surged up the beach, the gentle fall of rain upon the grass.

Confused, she studied the glow of light before her, a diffused, welcoming pulse. And understood.

She’d died.

A tremor shook her. Nay, let her be wrong.

“Aye, my child, your new life has begun. Here you will be pain free and will find naught but happiness.”

“Nay, I cannot be happy without Aedan.”

Rowan! His voice echoed from the distance.

She whirled, secluded in the shroud of white. “Aedan?”

“He cannot hear you.”

She turned. “Please, I wish to go back.”

Silence. “None has ever requested to leave.”

“A fact I can understand. Never before have I felt such welcome, such acceptance, but never before have I felt the love that Aedan has given me.”

Silence hummed within the cocoon of warmth. “If you go back, you will step into your life as before, into agony so intense you will wish for this peace.”

She hesitated. “If I go back, will my child and I live through the conversion?”

The light pulsed. “Aye.”

“Then, ’tis my wish to return.”

“You are certain?”

Rowan nodded.

“So be it.”

The light dulled.

Pain rushed into Rowan like a mace driven into unprotected flesh. Her body throbbed, hurt more than she believed possible.

“She is awake.”

Aedan’s distant voice reached her. Rowan fought against the pain, fought not to slip beneath consciousness. “Ae-Aedan?”

A hand as soft as it was strong lifted hers. “I am here.”

She forced open her eyes, found him watching her, his fear easy to read.

“She is a vampire?”

At the dazed yet melodic voice, Rowan shifted her head, winced against the slash of agony. The fairy queen stood but a pace away.

“Only half,” Aedan replied, his voice thick with wonder. “My blood has melded with hers, and incredibly, as I’d hoped, she has retained her fey aspects, and lost only her human side.”

Beads of sweat slid down Rowan’s body as she struggled to concentrate, to understand the full impact of his words.

“Impossible,” the fairy queen whispered.

“ ’Twould seem not,” Aedan replied.

The regal woman rubbed her brow. “This is all such a muddle.” She gave Rowan a gentle smile. “There is much I wish to ask you, but later, once you have recovered.”

“Incredibly, I am feeling stronger,” Rowan replied, finding with each passing second her words were true.

Aedan gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “ ’Tis the mix of vampire and fey blood. Both hold enormous strength and ensure you will quickly heal.”

She touched the curve of her stomach, surprised to feel the kick of her child against her palm.

“Your child will grow at an accelerated rate due to the mix of fey and vampire blood,” Ysenda explained.

Rowan nodded, understanding there was so much more she would learn. From the puzzlement on the queen’s face, she was not alone. “You have questions.”

Ysenda studied her a long moment. “Laird MacGregor said you were left upon a healer’s doorstep.”

“Aye,” Rowan replied. “After my mother died giving birth, my father struggled to raise me. He felt it a prudent choice.”

“Since you were half fey, he would.” The fairy queen’s hands trembled. “How many summers are you?”

Confused by such a question, Rowan frowned. “Eighteen, Your Highness.”

Tears shimmered in Ysenda’s eyes. “ ’Tis true.”

“True?” Rowan asked.

“You, child,” the fairy queen whispered, “are my granddaughter, Princess Rowan Campbell of the Otherworld.”

Epilogue

Rowan leaned against Aedan’s arms as she stared down at the sleeping babies nestled in their beds. “They are so small,” she whispered, aware that, part fey and part vampire, they would be ultrasensitive and easily awakened.

“They will grow fast,” he replied.

“Three.” She shook her head. “Who knew I carried triplets.”

Aedan smiled, his expression filled with pride. “Magic indeed.”

“I am thankful my grandmother has accepted you.” She lifted her gaze, smiled. “Has accepted us.”

“ ’Twas that or lose contact with a granddaughter and her great grandchildren.”

“More, I think it was your insisting we name one of our daughters after my mother.”

“Guinevere is a regal-sounding name.”

“Aye,” she agreed, “but a token of peace all the same.”

“Aye.” He winked. “One that worked well, might I add.”

With a smile, she took in their children, and her heart filled with pride. “Elspeth and Seòras have your eyes.”

“And your smile.” Aedan drew her into a slow kiss, lifted his head. “Our children. A miracle.”

“They are.” She shook her head. “ ’Tis hard to believe so much has happened in such a brief amount of time.”

He brushed a sweep of hair from the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “Aye.”

Sadness touched Rowan. “I am sorry your cousin is dead.”

“Do not be. Breac’s greed sealed his fate.”

“I know. Still, I wish it could have ended otherwise.”

“As do I, but ’tis done.” Aedan took her hand in his, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Never must we forget that our joining, though for us a miracle, will be frowned upon by many vampires as well as many fey.”

Like an ominous foreboding, a chill raced through her as she studied the innocent faces of their sleeping children. “Never would I wish them harm.”

“Nor I, but ’tis a consequence of our love.”

“Aye.” She lifted the tiny hand of her closest daughter, pressed a kiss upon miniature fingers, and then tucked Elspeth’s hand beneath the coverlet. She turned to Aedan. “But my wish is to focus on the joys of this day. The challenges ahead will come.”

“Indeed.”

He claimed her mouth in a long, passionate kiss, and Rowan’s worries fell away. This moment she would savor the man she loved, their beautiful children, and the gift of family found. And if she and Aedan’s meeting and falling in love seemed like magic, it was only fitting, with her being part fey. ’Twould seem a perfect ending indeed.

NEVER BEEN BITTEN

Erica Ridley

For Frank Stout, a born romantic

Chapter One

October 1830
Lincolnshire, England

To some, the Wedgeworth soirée might appear a splendid crush of debutantes, dandies, and music, but to Miss Elspeth Ramsay—inveterate bluestocking, indifferent spinster, and, most damning of all, tradeswoman—the evening’s crush was simply her latest assignment. As planned, she’d been commissioned to enter the world of the ton.

If Ellie were a fidgeter, she might have been nervously smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the nicest of her outdated gowns. She did not fidget. If she were a coquette, perhaps she would be twining one of her wayward curls about her finger whilst simpering at the eligible bachelors. Ellie did not simper. If she were socially ambitious, she might be near to a swoon at having arrived at a High Society fête as the particular guest of the youngest daughter of a duke. She did not swoon. Instead, Ellie stood in the farthest corner from the orchestra, surreptitiously surveying the crowd and hoping none of them would notice her in the shadows. After mentally cataloguing and discarding each of the revelers as harmless, she turned to her benefactress with a raised brow.

“Well?” she said, impatient to calm her client’s irrational fears and escape the oppressive splendor. “Where is he?”

Rather than being affronted by this impertinence, Miss Lydia Breckenridge beamed with self-satisfaction. “He has not yet arrived.” Miss Breckenridge nearly bounced on her satin-slippered feet. “I knew you’d be able to discern human from inhuman upon sight, you being an authority on the paranormal—”

“I am no such thing!” Ellie was unable to bear this speech with continued calm. “I am a woman of science, Miss Breckenridge. If anything, I am a ‘professional skeptic.’ To date, every such claim I’ve investigated has been quickly proven false, and I don’t doubt this one shall unfold in the same way.” As much as she and her mother desperately needed the coin, Ellie couldn’t help but give a slight shake of her head. “Vampires, indeed.”

“But don’t you see?” Miss Breckenridge insisted, eyes shining. “That’s what makes your involvement perfect. When even you are forced to admit true evil walks amongst us, the rest will be obliged to take heed.”

“And do what?” Ellie asked sensibly. “Drive a stake through his waistcoat?”

“What a horrid image.” Miss Breckenridge’s brow creased. “To be honest, I had not thought so far in advance.”

Ellie forbore mentioning she doubted her client had thought over any portion of her preposterous belief. Rudeness was never warranted, and besides, she planned to earn the promised ten-pound note. “At what point did you first suspect the new earl in town to be a vampire?”

“No, no,” gasped Miss Breckenridge. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

Ellie blinked. “He’s not a vampire?”

“He’s not a lord.” Miss Breckenridge sniffed. “Despite his sobriquet. He’s a younger son of a family in the Scottish Highlands, distantly related to the head of some forgotten medieval clan. He’s not a member of the peerage whatsoever. How could he be, if he’s an undead immortal?”

“How indeed,” Ellie said faintly. “How, then, did he cut such a swath?”

For a moment, Miss Breckenridge’s eyes turned dreamy. “Mártainn Macane may be penniless and a cursed bloodsucker, but he’s devilishly handsome.”

“Penniless!” Ellie exclaimed, forming a much sharper impression of her quarry. His motive might not be much different than hers, but his method stood in stark relief. She had never feigned bloodlust for gain. “I deduce he puts himself forward in order to take advantage of innocent debutantes.”

Miss Breckenridge gestured at the swirling crowd. “No need for such, when young and old alike throw themselves and their purses in his path at every opportunity.”

Ellie’s lip curled at the very idea. “I’m sure he cannot refuse such marvelous gifts. The women are aware of his . . . nature?”

“Aware? He’s nigh irresistible,” Miss Breckenridge confessed in a whisper. “Undoubtedly part of his dark magic. The competition to be the devil’s chosen has eclipsed the judgment of every otherwise sensible woman who finds herself caught in his gaze.”

Ellie’s client clearly thought herself the heroine of a gothic novel. Either the higher the social rank, the lower the intelligence, or this Mr. Macane was an extremely skillful magician indeed. She’d bet he was nothing more than a two-bit actor who had changed his venue from the streets to soirées. “How can he be so successful and also so terrible?”

“How?” Miss Breckenridge blushed prettily. “Because he’s bad in a very, very good way. They’ve gone so far as to dub him Lord Lovenip, and my brothers tell me the betting books overflow with wagers as to which female he shall claim next.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh, I do hope you yourself do not fall prey to his wicked charms!”

“Oh, for the love of—” Ellie coughed daintily into her gloved hand, reminding herself that money earned for a fool’s errand was still money earned, and she’d be wise not to let her mouth get in the way of the Breckenridge coffers. “Have no fear on that front, Miss Breckenridge. I have yet to find the man capable of turning my head.”

Her benefactress cast a discerning eye at Ellie’s drooping curls and woefully out-of-fashion gown, managing to convey without a single word that Ellie’s spinsterhood was far more likely due to Ellie’s own inability to turn heads, rather than any fault inherent in the eligible gentlemen.

Be that as it may, Ellie’s distinct lack of position in Society afforded her the perfect disguise: insignificant wallflower. Unlike third-daughter-of-a-duke Miss Breckenridge, Ellie had the ability to stay both in sight and unnoticed at gatherings such as this. Granted, this was the first time she’d been commissioned to investigate a vampiric Scotsman, but she held complete confidence that she would put paid to such nonsense in short order.

Her spine straightened as a wave of whispers rippled through the ballroom like froth chasing the tide. An unnatural hush immediately followed.

Although the orchestra kept playing, the music now had a tinny, street-corner quality, as if the melody were being strained through a battered ear horn. The dancers did not falter, but their steps became disjointed and mechanical, as if they were marionettes painted to resemble aristocracy, rather than the pleasure-seeking lords and ladies they’d been just moments ago.

Ellie’s senses became overwhelmingly acute. Miss Breckenridge’s breathing seemed to echo about the chamber, her perfume suddenly noxious. Ellie’s pulse thundered with such force, she fancied she felt the heat of her blood coursing recklessly through her veins. For the first time in her life, she had the inexplicable desire to flee the premises while her heart still beat.

Then there he was.

A leather thong tied thick chestnut hair at the nape of his neck. Eighteen stone of solid muscle sculpted effortlessly into ebony breeches and bone-white muslin. His skin was just as pale, yet managed to convey the strength of marble rather than the fragility of ivory. Impossibly bright sea-green eyes gazed knowingly from beneath dark lashes. Blunt cheekbones accentuated a wide, firm mouth set in a mocking smirk above a strong jaw.

He was too big, too pale, too predatory. He should not have been beautiful, but he was.

The music bobbled in his wake, losing its rhythm, then tumbled forth at twice the tempo. The sharp-edged lords and ladies loosened their joints until they too were fluid and careening about the ballroom once again. Widows and debutantes alike spun in and out of his path, inventing steps where there should be none, dipping to expose both cleavage and bared necks, twirling ever closer even when the music was done.

A giddy countess lost her equilibrium when she could not keep her eyes from him. Without even facing in her direction, he righted her with a mere touch of his palm against the small of her back. She fainted into her husband’s arms. The remaining ladies were too entranced by Mártainn Macane to take notice.

Ellie swallowed hard.

Lord Lovenip, indeed. For there could be no other man capable of stirring a stately crowd into such a frenzy with nothing more than a moment of his presence.

With what was surely superhuman strength, Ellie cut her gaze from the man sucking all the air out of the previously well-ventilated ballroom and forced her eyes to her benefactress. Perhaps it was the act of severing the inexplicable connection to the rakish Highlander or perhaps the unreality of the moment had been entirely in Ellie’s mind, but once the arresting Scotsman no longer filled her vision, the rest of her senses shifted back to normal. Her pulse no longer clogged her ears, her blood no longer simmered beneath her flesh, and Miss Breckenridge was no longer breathing like—

All right, yes. Miss Breckenridge was still breathing like a broodmare in labor. If her bosoms heaved any more vehemently, they’d heave themselves right out of their fashionably low bodice. Ellie uncurled fingers she didn’t recall clenching and pressed a trembling hand to her own bosom to assure herself she was in no danger of exposing any womanly curves.

None of the other ladies seemed afflicted with such spinsterish sensibilities.

Everywhere Macane stepped, widows and debutantes swarmed. They taunted him with their long slender necks and bared décol-letage, angling for a dance and hoping to tempt him with the naked flesh displayed above the lace of their gowns. The married ladies were coyer, fluttering glazed eyes at him from over their husbands’ shoulders.

He could have his pick of anyone in the room, Ellie realized with a start. Could and, most likely, did. Young, old, married, widowed—they were all shamelessly, shockingly available if he but wished it. The well-favored Scot seemed blind to the tiny dramas of gentlemen clinging desperately to their negligent wives and turned instead to the buffet of virginal misses fairly leaping from their duennas’ custody and into his arms.

The steps of country-dances led him to one, then another, then yet another, leaving them all flushed and breathless and smitten, panting and clawing for the chance to tumble into his embrace once again, as if addicted to his scent.

It was horrifying and appalling and . . . more than a little exciting. Every time he chose a pastel angel from the adoring crowd, Ellie’s flesh tingled as if it had been her hand he had touched. Every time he spun an enraptured young miss out of his arms for a beat or two, Ellie felt the loss of contact down to her very bones. It was as if she could feel what they felt, both the delicious sense of vulnerability as one wide-eyed innocent after another let herself be trapped in his arms, as well as the darker thrill of possession, of mastery, of control over everyone who fell within his line of vision.

If the dukes and dandies felt threatened by the relentless power exuding from the dashing Mr. Macane, they disdained any instinct for confrontation. The married gentlemen clutched their wives to their chests as best they could. The unattached bucks melted into the wainscoting like wolf pups cowering before the leader of the pack.

Macane spared a glance at neither set, as if none of the gentlemen present posed the slightest threat to him having his way with whomever he wished. No matter what that might entail. Although Ellie had, as expected, seen no signs whatsoever of the handsome Lord Lovenip’s being tempted by blood rather than by the ladies themselves, he was certainly dangerous in his own right, and a volatile addition to any throng. Not to mention provocative.

“Miss Breckenridge—” Ellie sucked in a breath, shocked to have heard a stammer in her voice. One would think this man had cast a spell over the room. “Miss Breckenridge,” she began again, once she had regained her command over both voice and body. “Presumably, the man who has enraptured the entire party without uttering a single word is the infamous Lord Lovenip. I see him dancing with those he should and those he should not, but nothing more untoward than that. I thought you said he . . . bites?”

“Not all of them.” With obvious difficulty, Miss Breckenridge tore her eyes from the man in question. She turned toward Ellie, her movements sluggish, as if she yearned to tilt her face to him. “And not all the time. That’s what makes him harder to catch.” Her shoulders lifted with a sigh. “And it’s why nobody believes me.” Miss Breckenridge’s voice lowered. “He’s not playacting, Miss Ramsay. He’s a predator.”

Unconvinced of dark magic afoot, Ellie pursed her lips and considered. “What is he waiting for, then? A solicitation?”

“A temptation, rather.” Miss Breckenridge lifted one of her slender arms and gave a flick of the wrist at the teeming crush. “He’s bored. He’s danced with these women before, many times. Such is the burden of the Upper Ten Thousand—there are a limited set of us at any given party.”

“A trial, to be sure,” Ellie murmured.

“I have had a devil of a time catching him in the act,” Miss Breckenridge continued. “My own sister doesn’t acknowledge the truth, which is what prompted me to hire a professional. Nothing short of impartial corroboration will gain me her ear.” She gave a sharp nod. “I shall now step aside and allow you your head.”

“Very well.” Ellie returned her gaze to the riveting Highlander who somehow made six-plus feet of controlled muscle seem elegant and graceful. She strongly suspected the virginal misses swarming about were in danger of losing something far more irreplaceable than a ration of blood, but how on earth could Ellie prove it?

“Dance,” she suggested to her client. “Dance with him, and I promise to watch very closely. I shan’t even blink.”

Miss Breckenridge recoiled as if Ellie had suggested eating spiders with tea. “Are you mad? I’ve no wish to be nibbled upon by Lord Lovenip, no matter how handsome the devil’s spawn might be. Dance with him yourself if you’d like to tempt him into action.”

Nibbled upon. Yes. That did sound—Ellie gave her head a violent shake. No, rather. What bug was in her brain today? She had no wish to be nibbled upon, by him or anyone else. Furthermore, while Mr. Macane might be a rake of the first order, that hardly made him an undead creature bent on draining the blue blood from London’s finest. Should she risk a dance to prove it? Why, certainly. Miss Elspeth Ramsay was more than willing to get her hands dirty in the name of science.

But how?

No one knew her. She was a dowdy spinster in outdated attire, hidden in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. Anonymity was the crux of any covert investigation. That’s why every time she infiltrated a crowd, she spent the first quarter hour mentally chanting, Don’t look at me, Don’t remember me, at everyone who passed her by. Her wish was always granted. Or perhaps someone of her station would never suffer particular attention. It went well against the grain to wish for the opposite. And even if the unthinkable happened and Lord Lovenip did happen to notice an unremarkable old maid flanking the third daughter of a duke, he’d suppose her Miss Breckenridge’s chaperone before he thought her a viable dance partner.

Besides, did she even know how? Ellie frowned, realizing for the first time that her ability to perform dance steps—or not—was one of the many maddening holes in her memory. Her mother had cautioned against taking this assignment, as if Ellie might forget herself and never return home. Utter nonsense. What Ellie could not forget was how badly their pockets were to let. They could ill afford to turn down money, and it was just a simple ball. Ellie would stick to the shadows, as always, and hopefully return home overlooked but a few pounds richer. And life would go on as always.

But she couldn’t stop the traitorous voice inside her head from whispering, Look at me; notice me as she stared at Mr. Macane’s devastatingly handsome form.

Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. His focus was on his simpering dance partner.

Chest tight with resentment and envy, Ellie shifted her gaze to the insipid debutante in his arms. Beautiful and probably brainless. I hope you fall.

The girl’s legs collapsed beneath her.

Ellie gasped in shock at the coincidence, unconsciously pressing her back against the uneven wall.

Macane extended a graceful hand to the trembling girl at his feet, but his dark gaze focused over her head, as if he could see through the throng and through the shadows, to the young lady trying desperately to melt into the wainscoting.

“You can’t see me. You can’t see me,” Ellie whispered, suddenly and unreasonably terrified.

“He can,” Miss Breckenridge corrected, her voice faint. “I fear you’ve been marked.”

Ellie’s body fought to free itself from the wall, as if pulled toward him by a force more powerful than her self-control. At the same time, every sense, every pore, screamed danger. Her breathing faltered and her heartbeat sped until her only reality was herself. . . and him.

The melody ended, and a new one began. Without breaking eye contact with Ellie, Macane handed the young girl off to her mother and strode forward, his step purposeful, his eyes determined. Despite the crowd, despite the music, despite her own breath rasping loudly in her ears, from across the ballroom she could clearly hear him speak his first word of the evening.

“You.”

And then he pounced.

Without seeing him cross the dance floor, without any memory of peeling herself from the far wall, their shadows intertwined and those eerily beautiful green eyes were piercing her to her soul.

“I—” Ellie faltered, unsure what she’d meant to say, or if there truly was anything to say.

He frowned, which only served to unnerve her even more. “You’re not—”

“I forgot to make introductions,” gasped Miss Breckenridge, at Ellie’s shoulder. “Of course. Mr. Macane, allow me the honor of presenting Miss Elspeth Ramsay. Miss Ramsay, this is Mr. Mártainn Macane.”

Yes. Obviously. But all Ellie could do was stare up at him, mesmerized by the tiny crease between his brows, as if he were as puzzled as she was to find herself the object of his attention. Who had he thought she was? And would he leave, now that his hopes had been disappointed?

Mr. Macane’s brow smoothed, and his chiseled features relaxed into a mask of perfect ennui. He inclined his head and favored her with a close-lipped smile.

Miss Breckenridge would no doubt assume he did so to hide unsightly fangs. Ellie knew better. Close-lipped smiles were what one did when one was only pretending. Her mastery of the art enabled her to mask her own humiliation at not being worthy of a true smile. His unexpected interest had been nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. More than understandable, given the crowd and the distance they’d had between them. Now that the dancing shadows thrown by the glass chandeliers no longer masked her features, he could finally see her for who she really was: nobody.

Never had she felt her lack of status so keenly.

He gazed at her a moment longer than was proper, undoubtedly determining the best way to extricate himself from an undesirable situation. To Ellie’s surprise, he extended his hand. “Shall we?”

She blinked at him until her addled brain deciphered his meaning, then she croaked, “Dance?”

“Certainly.” The edge of his mouth lifted as if he found her amusing.

Ellie was not amused. She was mortified. And determined not to let it show.

“Go,” her client hissed, sotto voce. “I shan’t even blink.”

Head held high—given that this dance would secure her place in infamy, and she’d no longer be able to cavort unnoticed amongst the ton, and how was she to earn a living without her anonymity?—she allowed him to lead her onto the parquet. Then she remembered that perhaps she’d better not hold her head too high, as it tended to elongate one’s neck, and she had no wish to emulate the brainless ninnies exposing their bare skin to him at every turn. She would be different. She would be . . . immune.

And if not, well, at least she would act like it.

When he led her about the perimeter of the floor, keeping time with the music, she was delighted to discover her feet did in fact know the right steps, even if her head didn’t. Unfortunately, that meant she needed something else to concentrate on.

Macane.

The dark-haired Scotsman perfectly embodied London fashion—except for one detail. Ellie’s gaze settled upon his bare neck. Strong, pale, and all the more striking due to an inexplicably absent cravat. Miss Breckenridge had mentioned that as one of his affectations. While the dandies struggled to keep their heads afloat above clouds of starched linen cascading from beneath their chins, Mr. Macane was shockingly unique. He did as he wished. He danced with whomever he wished. And, if Miss Breckenridge was to be believed, he drank from whomever he wished.

Ellie’s eyes widened as she realized the thought of his lips at her throat quickened her pulse more from excitement than fear. What was wrong with her? Why did her blood thrum faster, as if calling out to him?

She focused on the curve of muscle between his neck and his shoulder, attempting to shame herself into behaving properly by proving his heartbeat was steadier than hers.

Except . . . she couldn’t find a pulse point.

Frowning, she tilted her head and listened for the sound of his breathing. She couldn’t hear that, either. Strange, for her senses tended toward the extraordinary. She could see the individual fibers in the fine linen stretched across the expanse of his chest, but could not detect the pulse at the base of his neck. She could discern the fine leather of his shoes and the worn satin of her own, but could not detect the merest breath exhaling from his nose.

She leaned into him a bit more than she ought, certain that she was missing the obvious while sharing the thrall of the mindless fancy gripping the ton. But even with her face close enough for her breath to send a stray curl brushing against his powerful chest, all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, and all she could see was herself acting a proper ninny.

Ellie pulled back and glanced up at him in embarrassment.

His eyes were not on hers. His gaze was locked on the base of her neck, where her own pulse point fluttered like a butterfly struggling to break free from its cocoon.

A slow smile curved his lips, gapping just long enough to flash a sliver of white teeth. Not fangs, Ellie told herself. Just teeth. As normal as hers. She took a deep breath and shivered as she inhaled the scent of cologne and clean linen.

Everything had an explanation. Macane was an accomplished rake, not a vampire. He happened to be brilliant at the art of illusion. With his absent cravat and his close-lipped smiles, he lent just the right touch of mystery and illicit adventure to woo the golden flock. Genius, actually. If she’d thought of it first, perhaps she’d be the celebrated Original of the ton, rather than the spinster who investigated frivolous claims for the rich.

She glanced up at him again. His mouth was no longer curved in a smile, but it was still wide and firm. The swooning ladies could keep their macabre fantasies. She’d much rather have that sensual mouth kissing her than biting her. If there weren’t such a crush of people . . .

As if they shared one mind, his next artful spin took them from the sparkling dance floor to a spot behind a hand-painted Chinese folding screen—which hid the entrance to the gardens. Before she could object (presuming she would have objected) Ellie was out the door and beneath the moonlit sky, still cradled in Macane’s arms.

A frisson of trepidation caused her to catch her breath. She stared up at him in a panic. Might he actually kiss her? As far as she could remember, no one had ever tried. No gentleman had ever noticed her long enough to think of it. And now—what if she did it wrong? What if she did it right? What would be expected of her then?

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “You dazzled me even as you tried to hide.”

Well, that was laying it on a bit thick. Ellie wasn’t ugly, but nor were artists dueling for the honor of painting her portrait. She was plain. Worse than plain: She was nondescript. Wracking her brain for an appropriate setdown to such ridiculous flattery, she narrowed her eyes at him . . . and nearly swooned at his expression.

He was sincere. Or if not, he gave a bloody good impression of it.

His eyes were rapt on her face, as if he had been searching for her all his life. His gaze had softened, making his features less harsh and more open. His arms cradled her gently, his hands splayed at the curve between waist and hips. He was being far more familiar than anyone of her acquaintance—far more familiar than any right-minded young lady should allow—but Ellie was so enamored by the idea of having entranced him that she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

His lips parted. Hers did too, mostly because she was having trouble remembering to breathe. Her lips suddenly felt too dry. She edged out the tip of her tongue to lick them and gasped when his hold tightened painfully. She felt strangely powerful, as if she truly were beautiful.

He lowered his face to hers. His eyes were no longer the crystal green of the sea, but rather a shimmering black. Rather than try to process the transformation, Ellie cleared her mind and let her own eyes flutter closed. She was going to be kissed for the first time. And she was going to enjoy it.

Her brow creased when the delicious pressure of his parted lips brushed the base of her throat rather than her waiting mouth. The sharp edge of bared teeth grazed the tender skin at the curve of her neck. He wasn’t going to kiss her—he was going to bite her!

Instinct forced her to react at lightning speed. But instead of shoving him away as she could’ve sworn she had instructed her limbs to do, Ellie returned the favor and sank her own teeth into his cravat-free neck.

Mutual shock held them immobile for an interminable moment. Realizing the ignominy of what she’d just done, Ellie pulled away in horror before he could thrust her from him bodily. To label him thunderstruck would be the understatement of the century.

He touched his neck with the tip of a finger. The pad of his white glove came away pink with blood.

“Good Lord,” he growled, his expression fierce. “Did you just bite me?”

Chapter Two

For the first time in centuries, seasoned warrior Mártainn Macane was nothing short of gobsmacked.

From across the ballroom, he’d been certain the ethereal creature with the wispy red-blond curls was the runaway bride he’d blood-sworn two centuries before to capture and return to his laird, uniting the most powerful clans.

After a closer look, he’d been even more certain that this lass was not his laird’s betrothed. First, she was too young. Granted, vampire bodies ceased aging at the hour of their deaths, but the Deserter had been in her late twenties when she’d succumbed, and this waif wasn’t a day over eighteen. Even in the dark, she was the picture of youthful innocence. But the most inarguable evidence was the girl’s panicked breathing and rapid heartbeat. If vampires’ hearts continued to beat, they wouldn’t need to consume blood.

Yet—the lass had bitten him. What the devil was he supposed to make of that? He would force an answer from her, if necessary.

Possessed of preternatural vision, Cain could clearly make out the uncommon beauty disguised in commoners’ clothing before him. For maximum intimidation, however, he needed to be certain she could see him just as clearly.

He swung her back through the open doorway and into the ballroom. The Chinese folding screen still hid them from the masses, but the candles flickering on the chandeliers overhead mottled them both in shifting patches of light. Either the Deserter had donned a human guise capable of fooling the most celebrated hunter of Clan Mac Eoin (which was impossible on all counts) or the redoubtable Miss Elspeth Ramsay had a wee bit of explaining to do.

“Speak,” he commanded.

Miss Ramsay’s crystal blue eyes stared up at him, her expression nothing short of horrified. Slender, petal-pink lips parted, but nary a word escaped. Just visible was a row of clean, white teeth. A single drop of crimson stained the blunt point of her left incisor. The sight of his own blood held him spellbound.

In spite of himself, Cain was almost painfully aroused. Even though her inexplicable assault was more mystifying than maddening, he could not tamp down the sharp yearning in his soul. No human had ever dreamt of biting him. That mating ritual was for vampire clans alone. And he hadn’t set foot in his homeland for over two hundred years. Oh, how he longed for Scotland, even now.

Were Miss Ramsay a vampire, her incisors would have been much longer, much sharper. Were she a vampire, he could have her. Och, were she a vampire, she would not be staring up at him with her face full of fear and a drop of her victim’s blood still glistening on her teeth.

He, a victim! The incongruity nearly incited him to throttle her. He was a warrior first, a vampire second, a victim never. And to have been surprised by a living girl, of all creatures. The humanity fairly steamed from her.

“Speak,” he repeated hoarsely.

She remained frozen in silence.

Even more confounding was the undeniable fact that she’d twice ignored his command. As far as Cain knew, resistance was impossible. Human minds were unable to withstand the will of a powerful vampire. Even more potent was a vampire’s spoken word. In centuries of history, he’d never heard of a human failing to obey vampiric Compulsion. Was it possible the girl was in too much shock to process her environment?

“Speak,” he said again, but this time gently, so as not to startle her overmuch.

The tip of her tongue nudged between the parted edges of her (very normal, very human) teeth.

Rapt, his entire body tensed in fascination.

The tip curled over her incisor, trapping the sole drop of blood between her tooth and tongue. Her pupils contracted, giving her iris the unsettling appearance of a solid disc of icy blue. Her chest stopped moving and no breath escaped her pink mouth. Her heart slowed—or perhaps time itself stopped as Miss Ramsay’s tongue disappeared once again, taking that single drop of his blood with it.

Music crashed down around them, and the moment was gone.

Leather boots and satin slippers slapped methodically across the floor as the brainless hive trampled about the parquet on the other side of the folding screen. Perhaps it was simply acute homesickness that was making him uncharacteristically torpid, imagining significance where there was none.

With a strangled gasp, Miss Ramsay clasped a white-gloved hand to her face as if holding back bile. Her eyes were normal, if a bit glassy and over-wide. Her breathing was shallow. She looked as if she might bolt at any second.

Cain bit back a frustrated sigh. She was clearly not the vampire he’d been seeking for centuries . . . but she was troublesome nonetheless.

Before Miss Ramsay’s arrival into his life, he had been on his single longest run of successful love nips (as the ton was wont to call them) in ballrooms across England. A slight sting where the curve of his neck met the muscle of his shoulder proved a reminder that the skin there had been broken. He could scarcely credit that the chit had succeeded where he had not.

He gentled his hold on Miss Ramsay and whirled her around the folding screen and back into the tide of dancers. Part of his carefully crafted mystique was never to abscond with fair maidens for a second longer than it took to take a sip of ambrosia and turn the memory into a half-remembered dream. He would not allow Miss Ramsay’s unprecedented counterattack to ruin his acceptance in Society. The more invitations extended to “Lord Lovenip,” the better chance he had of locating the Deserter.

Meanwhile, he would solve the puzzle of Miss Ramsay.

She released her lower lip from between her teeth and finally met his eyes. “I—I didn’t mean to bite you.”

Unquestionably. He gave her a half smile. “Then why did you?”

Miss Ramsay blushed. The blood rising to kiss the pale softness of her cheeks was nearly Cain’s undoing.

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

He believed her. Miss Ramsay was hardly one of his kind. She was far stranger. “I believe it’s safe to say that you’re not like the other ladies.”

“Certainly not.” Her chin rose defiantly. “I’m smarter.”

His amusement was overshadowed only by his interest in her choice of adjectives. She hadn’t said she was prettier, or wealthier, or better connected. She’d chosen an attribute for which no one in the room cared one whit. Well, except for him. A warrior prized intelligence above all other traits.

“You’re certainly less predictable,” he agreed, pleased to see the blood rise to her cheeks anew at the reminder. He leaned closer. She smelled so fresh, so fragile, so alive. He should have kissed her when they were hidden in the gardens. “Are you from this part of the country? Or are you a city miss, barely surviving until the Season is upon us again?”

If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might have missed the tiny frown that flickered between her brows.

“Neither.” She broke eye contact, shifting her gaze over his shoulder. “And you?”

A pretty evasion . . . Cain wondered why she felt it necessary. “I was born on the Isle of Mull, but I’ve now been in England more years than I lived in Scotland.”

Her focus returned to his face. “Is it beautiful? Your homeland, I mean?”

He smiled despite the pain in his heart. “Very. Have you never had the opportunity to visit?”

She shook her head.

“You ought, if you get the chance.” It occurred to him she might not have the means for extensive travel; then he discarded the thought as nonsense. Country ball or not, one was not invited to rub noses with this set of people if they did not believe their guest to be of means. “Have you traveled much?”

“More than I prefer to have done.” An expression flashed across her face too quickly to decipher. Anger? Distaste? Regret? “Are you afflicted with wanderlust, my lord?”

“To lust,” he said with a wicked smile, “and not the slightest inclination to wander.”

As hoped, the blush once again rose to her porcelain cheeks. Miss Ramsay was by far the most fetching female in the entire region. No doubt their dancing together after having stepped behind the Oriental folding screen would add a new page to the betting books on the morrow. After having treated himself to a pretty neck, he refrained from further dalliance—meaning Lord Lovenip had never continued to dance attendance upon anyone he’d sequestered for a quick bite. And here he was—swirling a young lady about the room long after, with not a hope of disguising his enjoyment of the flirtation.

“You’re shameless,” she admonished.

He grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

“And highly inappropriate,” she added.

He pulled her closer and dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “You wound my sensibilities, madam.”

She shook her head in consternation and amusement. Not the reaction he usually effected, but then, nor was Miss Ramsay the usual sort of female. He was having far more fun than he’d had on his previous dances added together.

“I doubt you have any sensibilities,” she said tartly.

Rather than reply, he allowed his gaze to settle on her lips. Ninety-nine times he’d whisked an English rose into a garden for a quick nip at her neck, and for the first time, he’d rather kiss one senseless. Miss Ramsay gazed at him with sharp intelligence, rather than mindless flirtation. She kept her secrets to herself and turned his questions back upon him rather than prattle endlessly about nonsense. And after centuries of witnessing human interaction, this was the first time he honestly couldn’t guess what a mortal would say or do next.

He only hoped it involved kissing.

The melody closed on a crescendo. The musicians set down their instruments for a brief intermission. Propriety demanded he release Miss Ramsay from his embrace. Cain did so, blaming his distraction for not having Compelled the orchestra to keep playing. He bowed. She dipped in the briefest of curtseys and slipped away amongst the milling nobility.

The moment the musicians returned, he would secure her hand for another dance. He would purloin her at first opportunity, abduct her back out to the gardens, and tempt a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. He yearned to taste her, to feel her breath on his skin, the warmth of her flesh, the flutter of her heart beating against his chest.

But when the music resumed, she was gone.

Cain searched the ballroom, then the peripheral rooms, then the entire grounds. Nothing. She had disappeared without a word. Without even letting him know how to reach her, should he wish to do so.

He wished for much more than that.

Luckily, a woman like that could hardly escape notice. Her being the recipient of an invitation meant someone had to know her well enough to invite her. Besides, the upper circles were woven so close that he was undoubtedly the only person present who hadn’t had the pleasure of receiving her card. He would have her direction in a trice.

“My apologies.” He paused before a clump of florid peacocks. “Could any of you tell me Miss Ramsay’s direction?”

The gentlemen screwed up their faces at him as if he’d spoken Gaelic. “Who?”

“Miss Elspeth Ramsay. Red-blond hair, dimple in her left cheek, impertinent but undeniably bonny . . .” Cain trailed off as he realized both his words and the accompanying hand gestures were most likely ill-advised in polite society. “That is to say, the lovely young woman I was just dancing with.”

A passing viscountess came to a sharp halt upon overhearing this last. There! He knew finding a simple direction wouldn’t be that difficult.

“Did you dance the last waltz?” she asked, blinking as if just having awoken from a deep sleep. She rapped his shoulder with a painted fan. “Horrid, horrid beast. You well know I would love to be your . . . partner.”

Cain made the expected flirtatious replies and circled about the room, growing more and more incredulous after each frustrating encounter. Not a soul could help him. For the first time since he’d entered Society, the lords and ladies had taken their eyes from him—just long enough to have missed his waltz partner (and the detour into the gardens) entirely.

Even more baffling: No one had ever heard of Miss Elspeth Ramsay.

Chapter Three

If the perturbed expression on her client’s stony face was any indication, Ellie would not be earning a single penny for her fruitless investigation into Mr. Macane. If anything, Miss Breckenridge’s continued silence indicated Ellie should count herself lucky to have been granted a ride home in the Breckenridge carriage. She had been hired to prove Lord Lovenip either monster or fraud, and instead she had first assaulted the suspect, then flirted shamelessly with him, followed most ignominiously by fleeing the scene altogether. Ellie could well acknowledge how such behavior might be perceived as a breach of contract.

“Do forgive me,” she blurted when she could no longer stand staring into her erstwhile client’s icy countenance. “I am all apologies. I should not have—”

“It’s not what you should not have done,” Miss Breckenridge snapped, “but what you should have done, yet failed to do. I brought you to the ball specifically so you could scientifically evaluate Mártainn Macane, not so you could—”

“Don’t say it,” Ellie begged, blushing furiously at the realization her client might have witnessed the role reversal in the gardens. She’d gone and ruined an opportunity for easy money by losing her mind. “I know it was not at all well done of me, but when I realized what he was about, my only thought was that the best defense is a quick offense, and the next thing I knew—”

“—was that you’d disappeared entirely,” Miss Breckenridge interrupted coldly. “And once I did come across you, nothing would do but to leave. Leave! A mere hour and a half after arriving! Regardless of your contract with me, one does not depart a Wedgeworth soirée a moment before three, and it isn’t even half one. I’ll be gossip fodder for days. And here we are, without an iota more information than when we began. What have you to say for yourself?”

“Very little, Miss Breckenridge.” Despite the luxury of the carriage, the sumptuous squab beneath Ellie’s bustle felt as though it were filled with rocks rather than down. Despite the latest technology in joints and shocks, every time the wheels rolled over the slightest pebble, Ellie’s body was so tense, she felt each bump all the way to her bones. She needed Miss Breckenridge’s patronage far more than Miss Breckenridge needed her. For the daughter of a duke, the soirée had been nothing more than an evening’s lark. But for Ellie, it had meant food and shelter. She and her mother needed those ten pounds to survive. “All I can say is that I would not have assaulted him had he not tried to attack me first. When I realized he wished to bite me—”

“What?” Miss Breckenridge’s jaw dropped. When Ellie failed to elucidate quickly enough, Miss Breckenridge trapped Ellie’s shaking knee in a surprisingly strong grip. “Are you talking about Mártainn Macane?”

“Yes,” Ellie said with a slight frown. “Er . . . aren’t you?”

“You spoke with him? And he tried to bite you?”

“Yes,” she repeated, blinking slowly. The thread of the conversation seemed to be unraveling in opposite directions.

Miss Breckenridge clasped Ellie’s knees even tighter. “Where?”

“In the gardens,” she stammered. “There was a Chinese folding screen near the exit, and he—”

“No, no, you ninny, where did he try to bite you?”

“Er . . . on the neck?” Ellie answered, deciding now was not the moment to take offense at being called a ninny. She certainly deserved the appellation for overreacting thusly to a perceived attack.

“On the neck,” Miss Breckenridge crowed. “What did I tell you? I knew he was evil!” A panicked expression quickly replaced joy, and Miss Breckenridge’s stupendous grip transferred from Ellie’s knees to her shoulders, jerking her forward. Miss Breckenridge pulled Ellie’s curls from her nape, twisting her head first one way then another as she inspected all angles of Ellie’s neck. “Are you certain he didn’t bite you? You won’t make any kind of witness if you become a monster yourself or succumb to his unholy hypnotism. Dear heavens, what would I do then?”

“He didn’t bite me. I swear it.” Ellie wrenched out of her client’s grasp and flattened her shoulders against the thick wall separating them from the driver’s perch. “And there’s no such thing as monsters.”

Miss Breckenridge sputtered, “No such—my dear girl, you were nearly bitten by the spawn of the devil himself, and you wish to quibble over the existence of vampires?” She waved a silk-gloved hand in Ellie’s direction and sat back with a pleased nod. “Certainly now you must believe.”

“We have proven he bites,” Ellie admitted begrudgingly. “We have not proven that he drinks blood.”

Even as she said the words, she recalled the taste of that single drop of blood on her tongue, and her body thrilled with a sensation she could only liken to arousal. Her petticoats seemed simultaneously too tight, too heavy, too thick, the carriage too quick and too confining, and the oxygen altogether too insignificant to fulfill the quantity needed by her gasping lungs.

For a moment, a very brief, very intense moment, she had wanted him with terrible acuteness. Her vision had closed to only his face, his neck, and she’d longed to bite him, kiss him, tear his clothes from his limbs and demand he do the same to her.

Even now, she could taste his blood in her mouth, feel his strength beneath her palms, smell his scent and his own arousal, sense the danger exuding from his every pore. It was the disturbing sensation that she, too, was just as dangerous that had snapped her out of her trance long enough for her to gather her wits. Some of them, anyway. At least she’d managed to finish the waltz without attacking him again.

“Even if we’d proven he has a taste for blood,” she said, grateful the dark interior of the carriage would mask her telltale blush, “that would not prove him a vampire. It would just make him . . . an extremely eccentric Scot. One must have empirical evidence before making sweeping claims.”

Miss Breckenridge smiled as if, shadows or no, she detected the lie of Ellie’s forced confidence. As if she saw through the careful façade of bluestocking scientist to the very rattled young woman underneath.

“See? You just presumed it possible—if not probable—that we will in fact prove your eccentric Scot boasts a taste for blood.” Miss Breckenridge gave a pleased nod. “Whether you admit it or not, you are already starting to believe.”

Peevishly, Ellie returned her client’s gaze and refused to respond.

Miss Breckenridge carried on nonetheless. “Besides, drinking blood isn’t the only sign of demonic vampirism.”

One of Ellie’s brows lifted despite herself. “No?”

At this query, Miss Breckenridge shook her head triumphantly.

“What else is there, then? Empirically, that is.”

“For one, vampires cannot abide sunlight.” Miss Breckenridge’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And no one has ever see Mártainn Macane during the day.”

Ellie’s shoulder twitched, but she refrained from indulging in a shrug. “With all due respect, that simply proves he dislikes the sun. Given that pale complexions are de rigueur, avoiding the sun hardly makes him suspicious. I’m a night person myself. I cannot remember the last time I gadded about during the day, if I ever have, and I’m certainly not a vampire. My own mother rarely leaves her bedchamber before dusk—surely you don’t accuse her of vampirism, too?”

“No, no, of course not,” Miss Breckenridge said with a wave of her lace-gloved hand. “But then, your mother hasn’t been running about biting nobility, as Lord Lovenip does.” Miss Breckenridge gasped dramatically and pressed her hand to her throat in obvious consternation. “Oh dear Lord, I’ve gone and used that ridiculous moniker myself.” She screwed up her face and glared at Ellie as if the slip were somehow Ellie’s fault instead of her own. With a sigh, she collapsed back against her seat. “What can I do to convince you vampires exist and that the dashing Mr. Macane is living—or rather undead—proof? Is it money you wish? Here . . .” She opened a satin, monogrammed reticule and dug through its contents before brandishing a crumpled five-pound note. “I’ll double the amount. This now, and fifteen more once you conclude the investigation. What do you say?”

Ellie stared at the wrinkled banknote in her client’s elegant outstretched palm. The money would mean everything to her and nothing at all to Miss Breckenridge. Her client hadn’t been about to sack her out of disappointment over her behavior, but rather due to a belief that she wasn’t taking the situation seriously. Given that Ellie had felt herself under her mother’s ultraconservative thumb her entire life, and had begun scientific investigations as much out of rebellion as industriousness, she could certainly empathize with a desire to be taken seriously. To know her own mind. Regardless of whether her beliefs matched everyone else’s.

“Very well.” Ellie plucked the crumpled paper from her client’s palm and slowly, methodically, flattened it across one knee before folding it carefully and consigning it to the darkness of her own, otherwise vacant purse. Then she returned her gaze to her client and tried to apply her most scientific perspective to the topic at hand. “Are there any characteristics shared by supposed vampires that are not also plausibly explained by eccentric, but wholly human, actions of man?”

Miss Breckenridge bit her lip in consideration. “Well, I’ve never seen him eat a morsel of food, or drink a single drop of punch. . . .”

“No one with any brains drinks the ratafia,” Ellie countered logically. “It’s horrid.”

“Fine.” Miss Breckenridge’s eyes narrowed at a spot just above Ellie’s shoulder for a long moment. Her sudden victory squeal nearly knocked Ellie out of her skin. “A mirror!” she exclaimed, rapping Ellie’s knee for emphasis. “Vampires have no reflections, and no one has ever seen Macane anywhere near a looking glass. I will double—nay, treble—your fee if you but maneuver him before a glass!”

Ellie hesitated. There was little she wouldn’t (honorably) do to earn such a sum, but what was the likelihood of success? She leveled her gaze at her client and infused her voice with as much calm rationality as possible. “If Mr. Macane has a visible reflection, you will agree that I’ve disproved your theory?”

Miss Breckenridge’s blinding grin bespoke utter confidence. “I will, indeed—because he will not have one. And I know just how to find out. My birthday is but a fortnight from now, and I’ve already planned a three-day party. I shall invite Macane—and you shall attend as well, of course—and we will have done with this investigation once and for all.”

The five-pound note in Ellie’s purse weighed as much as a five-ton anchor. Her family desperately needed the income, but there was no hope of Ellie attending a three-day party. She’d had to misrepresent quite a few details of tonight’s festivities to garner her mother’s permission for the outing.

“I apologize,” she said quietly, “but there is no chance at all of my attendance. My mother is quite protective and will never allow me out of her sight for so long. She doesn’t even know where we were tonight.”

Miss Breckenridge’s eyes widened. “Where on earth does she think you are?”

“At a local estate . . . helping you find a lost kitten,” Ellie admitted with another furious blush. “If Mama for one moment suspected I attended a soirée, I should never be allowed out of her sight again.”

The young lady across from her merely laughed in response. “I am a Breckenridge,” she said matter-of-factly, “and no one tells a Breckenridge no. I will call upon you on the morrow to extend the invitation in person. There will be no chance of refusal.”

Ellie gulped. Miss Breckenridge might consider herself a royal flush, but Ellie’s mother was a wild card more likely to be repulsed than impressed by Quality lineage.

Chapter Four

The next morning, Ellie jerked the steel tip of her dip pen out of her mouth for what was surely the hundredth time. She might not damage the dip pen’s metal exterior, but she was certainly flirting with cracked teeth or a splatter-ink moustache.

She’d woken up with a hunger like never before, and when an entire tray of kippers had failed to dampen the cravings, she’d developed a disturbing oral fixation on anything and everything she could put in her mouth. The sudden desire to chew on household miscellany was just as strong as the unladylike stomach rumblings that propelled her into the kitchen a mere hour after she broke her fast.

Luckily, her mother’s predilection for staying abed until after noontime meant Ellie was unlikely to be discovered face-first in the larder.

“Toast? No . . .” Ellie murmured to herself. “Clotted cream? No . . . Boiled vegetables? Definitely not . . . Hrrgmmph?”

She jerked to a stop as she realized she now had an entire carrot protruding from her mouth. She removed the vegetable and glared at the many tooth marks now marring its surface. She had never liked carrots, and here she was gnawing at one as if compelled to do so. What she really wanted was meat. Surely there must be—aha! An entire slab of . . . Well, Ellie had never been in a kitchen during the actual cooking process, so she wasn’t exactly certain what it was she was staring at, but it was meat, and therefore, food.

Ellie was thrilled with her find and dying to partake, but how on earth was she to prepare it? Blast. Either she would have to suffer her hunger pangs until lunchtime, or she would be forced to make do with what she had. Biting at her lower lip, Ellie gave in to temptation and reached for the platter.

“Elspeth!”

“Aaagh!”

Ellie whirled around, simultaneously trying to hide the heavy platter behind her back whilst preventing its gravitational slide toward the stone floor. She failed on both counts. Silver clanged to the floor. Pink droplets sprayed the hem of her butter-yellow morning dress. The ill-used carrot rolled to a stop when it collided with the toe of her mother’s slipper.

“Er . . . good morning, Mama.” Ellie did her best at a sunny, innocent smile and hoped she didn’t have bits of carrot—or ink stains—upon her teeth. “Did you sleep well?”

Her mother closed her eyes and scrunched up her face as if wishing very hard that she did not have a daughter who skulked about the pantry at half eleven, gnawing on root vegetables and dropping trays of raw meat. This was, of course, a wish destined to remain ungranted, but Ellie sank to her knees anyway and did her best to gather up what had most likely been meant for tonight’s supper. Her mother unscrunched her porcelain face and opened her long-suffering blue eyes.

“Elspeth, darling,” Mama began in her softest voice. The one Ellie dreaded above all others.

Being called “Elspeth darling” was never a good sign, nor was the sight of her mother awake before noon. All indications were for Ellie to flee, and flee now. If she weren’t already on her knees grappling for the fallen carrot, she would have obeyed the impulse.

“What the devil are you about, girl?” Mama demanded in much put-out tones.

“I was hungry,” Ellie murmured without looking up. “Just looking for a light repast.”

Mama’s incredulity was palpable. “A light repast of whole carrots and a pound of venison?”

“You’re awake a few hours before schedule,” Ellie interjected, hoping some quick misdirection would save her from having to invent an explanation. “What could have possibly dared to disturb your slumber?”

“The howling of the wind.” Mama pulled her shawl tighter and glared over her shoulder at the frost-specked windows. With luck, she had forgotten about the carrot.

Having gathered the foodstuffs, Ellie rose to her feet and returned the tray to the larder. The majority of the venison could be salvaged. Ellie had hoped to be a breadwinner, not exacerbate their poverty.

She shook out her skirts, rolled back her shoulders, and met her mother’s gaze bravely. A wasted effort, of course, since even if Ellie had been decked in finery fit for a queen, she would still be a pale shadow of her mother. Mama awoke from slumber with golden ringlets, big blue eyes, and a perfect cupid’s-bow smile. Ellie awoke from slumber with a lopsided mane of red-blond tangles, bloodshot eyes, and a crick in her shoulder from falling asleep curled up on the library sofa. And an inexplicable yen for raw vegetables.

“I’ve been thinking . . .” Mama said. Another bad omen. Mama tended to think things like you would look lovely in orange damask, or why don’t you read the original text in ancient Latin, or if you don’t stop complaining about your hair, I’ll cut it off and have done.

Ellie braced herself. “Say your piece.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Mama repeated more firmly but without meeting Ellie’s eyes, “that it’s time.”

“No.” Ellie’s heart began to gallop. The pantry was suddenly too small to comfortably breathe. “Mother, no. Please.”

“Elspeth, you knew when we moved here it would not last forever.” Mama’s voice was calm, steady, and vexingly reasonable. “This cannot be a shock.”

“But why now?” Ellie hated her own powerlessness, despised her inability to keep the panic out of her voice every time she found herself participating in these dreaded conversations. “I truly like it here.”

Her mother sighed. “You always do. And we cannot stay.”

“But—but—” Miss Breckenridge flashed into Ellie’s mind, followed quickly by the promise of ten-pound notes and another glimpse of Mártainn Macane. “I’ve made a friend,” Ellie blurted, not certain whom exactly she referred to, and for the moment uncaring. She would employ as much hyperbole as necessary. “How can you ask me to leave when I finally belong for the first time?”

“I told you not to make friends,” Mama replied, intractably calm in the face of Ellie’s growing desperation. “If you had listened to sound advice, there wouldn’t be anyone to fit in with. End of discussion. Prepare whatever you’d like to bring. We leave by the end of the week.”

“To go where?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

“I shan’t go.” Ellie took a deep breath. “You can leave if you like, and post me a letter when you get there. I’m an adult. And I’m happy here.”

It was more than that, actually. More important than mere happiness. For the first time in her life, Ellie felt useful.

No—Ellie was useful.

She investigated specious claims of the idle rich. While her acts were neither heroic nor exciting, she had earned money for her family and was shaping her own life. She enjoyed disproving folktales of werewolves and vampires, and she had absolutely savored the singular experience of dancing in a Society ballroom.

If she listened to Mama, she’d do nothing but sleep her life away, muddling through depressing bouts of wakefulness encaged in the library with brandy-laden tea and endless stacks of spine-creased books. Ellie knew every printed word in their library by rote, could read them all in their original tongues and discuss them in almost any language, but what was the point of any of it if there was no one to discuss anything with and no chance of experiencing an adventure of her own?

“You can make all the mulish expressions you want, young lady, but we are leaving. Pack, or don’t pack. If you wish to leave with nothing but the clothes on your back, that’s up to you. But we’re going, and that’s final.” Mama’s perfect brow creased as she gave Ellie a small smile. “Darling, I’m doing this for you.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

“And yet, just when I’m comfortable with a place, it’s suddenly time to leave. Why must we flee in dead of night? Why must I keep to myself and never make friends? Would it be so terrible if I were to have a bosom acquaintance? Or attend an opera? Or—or—fall in love?”

Mama’s vise-like fingers closed around Ellie’s wrist before she registered her mother had even moved. “The opera is overrated,” Mama’s soft, steely voice whispered into Ellie’s ear, “and you will not fall in love.”

Ellie jerked her arm back. She squeaked in surprise when she actually wrenched it free. Even Mama was visibly shocked. She had always been stronger, in every possible meaning. She won every argument, triumphed in every battle, whether of wits or strength or will. But here they were, toe-to-toe, chin to chin. Ellie’s wrist was sore, but it was free. She was still free.

For the moment.

Ellie well knew that she could refuse to leave as much as she’d like, but in the end, if Mama went, she would, too. Partly because she couldn’t afford an overnight in an inn, much less an entire life of independence. But mostly because she loved her mother.

If Mama would just stay put somewhere, Ellie would be blissfully content. It was the bouncing about she couldn’t stand. Just when a place became comfortable, just when faces started to seem familiar, just when she began to feel at home . . . the next moment she was tossing trunks into a carriage at midnight and racing through a starless countryside to a place even stranger than the last.

When Ellie had been younger, she’d actually believed her mother when she’d claimed they relocated at random intervals simply because Mama suffered ennui if she stayed overlong in one spot. Recently, however, Ellie had begun to notice a glassiness just at the edges of her mother’s eyes during their inevitable fights. Panic. Whatever the true reasons were, Mama did not force Ellie to pick up roots out of idle cruelty. She was truly as desperate to leave as Ellie was to stay. Mama was just better at hiding it.

She might not have a grand purpose to life, but Ellie was in possession of an invitation to a house party, and she’d be damned if she would give that up as well without a fight. If she couldn’t have the kind of life she’d always dreamed of, at the very least she wanted to experience the upcoming weekend. And when she left, she would carry the memory with her.

Mama was staring at Ellie with narrowed eyes and a brow creased with concentration, as if she was hoping to force her daughter to acquiesce with the mere force of her will. It almost worked. Every other time, it had worked. But not today. Today, Ellie stood tall, with her messy hair, her juice-stained hems, and her bruised-but-unfettered arm akimbo on her hips. They both knew she would end up living wherever her mother wished. But Ellie did not have to pack her things right now.

“My best friend’s birthday is coming up,” she began, toeing the fine line between exaggeration and outright lies. “If you are asking me to abandon her without so much as a word, the least you can do is allow me to accept her invitation to visit first. I may never have the opportunity again. And we can leave the following week just as easily as this one.”

Mama’s frown increased. “Elspeth, darling. Please listen. We are not leaving for me. I do this for you.”

“Then wait for me.” Ellie relaxed her stance and softened her voice. “Let me call on my friend for the weekend. I will only be gone a few days.”

“But why would you wish to? You’ve never spent a single night from home.”

“You’ve never allowed it.”

“And why should I do so now?”

“Mother, you don’t have a choice. I’m old enough to mind my manners and not embarrass myself. I’m also old enough to have a little fun. Look at it this way: We will leave soon. If you allow me one small freedom, this will be our last word on the subject. When I return, I will pack peaceably and immediately, and we can set off as soon as you’d like.”

Her mother’s lips pursed. “And if I cannot agree?”

Ellie lifted a shoulder. “Then it will be a battle every step of the way.”

Mama was silent for a long moment. Perhaps she could not fathom why her daughter had lost her habitual obedience.

For her part, Ellie wasn’t certain when Miss Breckenridge’s invitation had gained such importance, but there was no denying that it had now become the brass ring dangling just out of reach, and she was determined to make one last leap.

And earn the promised fee. Running away cost more than staying put, and they had enough trouble making it through each day.

Mama shook her head. “Elspeth darling . . .”

Ellie longed to collapse her shoulders in defeat. She forced her spine even straighter rather than give the impression of submissiveness.

“Ladies?” The deep voice came from beyond the pantry, where their sole manservant stood in the shadows bearing a single white card upon a small silver tray. “It appears Miss Ramsay has a visitor.”

“Who?” Mama demanded, wild-eyed.

“The card says Miss Lydia Breckenridge.” The manservant proffered the tray.

If Ellie thought her mother had been blindsided by her daughter’s recent strength of will, Mama was downright apoplectic over the shock of impending company.

“Show her to the sitting room, if you please,” Ellie commanded before her mother could catch her breath. “I’ll be there posthaste.”

With that, she edged past her mother and raced to her bedchamber for a fresh gown.

Although she changed as rapidly as she was able, she fully expected to discover Miss Breckenridge half-mad from one of Mama’s brutal interrogations. Instead, Ellie found her benefactress to be unattended, drifting about the sitting room with what could only be described as an air of befuddlement.

“Good afternoon.” Ellie glanced about the simple room in search of whatever might have discomfited Miss Breckenridge so. “Is something amiss?”

“Amiss?” the young woman echoed, her brow clearing. “That’s precisely it. Nothing at all is amiss!”

“I’m afraid I do not follow.” Ellie motioned her guest onto a sofa and took the seat opposite.

“The Breckenridge estates are a positive museum, every inch filled with antiquities fighting for space with the latest Parisian baubles. Your domicile—while quite serviceable, Miss Ramsay, I mean no insult—hasn’t a single gewgaw on display. It gives your home quite a refreshing, timeless appeal.” Miss Breckenridge shook her head and laughed. “I daresay your staff is the more content, not having to spend every minute dusting the same tired gimcracks.”

Ellie forced a smile, unsure whether her home had just been complimented or slighted. She tried to see her plain surroundings through a stranger’s eyes.

While everything was tasteful and tidy, the “everything” in question did in fact consist of no more than the bare necessities. Aside from a few pieces of furniture and a handful of candelabra, the sitting room contained nothing else. Ellie could scarce imagine living in the chaotic opulence Miss Breckenridge described. Not only were antiquities and Parisian baubles quite above the Ramsays’ means, their inevitable midnight flights from one corner of England to another inherently prohibited attachment to any given item.

It was therefore a happy accident indeed if their inability to own any belongings had produced an ambiance of—what had Miss Breckenridge called it?—timeless appeal.

Ellie frowned slightly upon the realization that her benefactress might have been using the term in a more literal sense than originally interpreted. The Ramsay home contained no clocks, no newspapers, no correspondence, no diaries, no family portraits.... It looked exactly as it always did, with nothing in vogue and nothing to mark the passage of time. Viewing her home from such a perspective, Ellie began to suspect she had been quite cleverly insulted, and could not help but take affront on behalf of her family’s simple lifestyle.

“Miss Breckenridge, I hardly think—”

“Do I interrupt?” came a smooth voice from the doorway.

“Mama!” Ellie rose to her feet, an attack of nervousness overwhelming her momentary pique. She had stood her ground against her mother, and there was no telling how Mama would react in consequence. “Miss Breckenridge, this is my mother, Mrs. Ramsay. Mama, this is my—this is Miss Breckenridge, whom I’ve told you so much about.”

Mama arched a slender brow. “The one with the birthday, I suppose.”

Miss Breckenridge could not suppress a startled blink at that rejoinder. Wordlessly, she, too, rose to her feet.

“Just so, Mama.” Ellie tamped down a grin at the idea of Miss Breckenridge’s being on the receiving end of an uninterpretable comment, unsure whether she had just been subtly insulted.

“How do you do,” Miss Breckenridge said at last. “I do have an impending birthday, and I’ve come to call for just that reason. I’ll be two-and-twenty next Saturday, and nothing will do but to have your daughter at the celebrations.”

Ellie cringed as her mother’s smooth expression quickly changed to disapproval. “Celebrations” did not sound like two young girls roaming a country estate far removed from the public eye. “Celebrations” sounded like the sort of thing Mama would forbid out of hand. Ellie fixed her gaze on Miss Breckenridge, willing her not to say anything else that might give Mama more ammunition for a refusal.

“Mrs. Ramsay, it would be my honor and pleasure to have your daughter’s presence at this weekend’s house p—”

No, no, it’s not a party, Ellie thought desperately, wishing she’d taken advantage of the brief privacy in order to coach Miss Breckenridge on subjects to avoid. Remember, we’re just two friends. No High Society. No grand crush. Just us. And your pretend kitten.

“—for an overnight stay,” Miss Breckenridge corrected, apparently recalling Ellie’s words the previous night. Her voice took on a far-off, wistful tone. “I am not one for big gatherings, so nothing will do but a long, quiet weekend with my dear friend and my darling cat.”

Ellie jerked her gaze to her mother, who was still eyeing the two young ladies beneath raised brows.

“Elspeth found the lost kitten?”

“Yes, Mama.” Ellie schooled her features into the most angelic of expressions. “She’s the most cunning little creature, and I would so enjoy the opportunity to play with her again. Do say I can go.”

When the resulting silence began to overwhelm the small sitting room, Miss Breckenridge put in earnestly, “I live far enough away that nothing less than the full weekend will do. I would be happy to send a carriage for Miss Ramsay as well.”

“We have our own carriage, thank you very much,” Mama snapped.

Rather than being taken aback, Miss Breckenridge seemed delighted by this response. She turned to Ellie with an air of satisfaction. “Then I shall see you on my birthday, dear friend. Good day to you both.”

And with that, Miss Breckenridge took her leave.

Ellie, however, knew better than to assume capitulation on her mother’s behalf. Until the word “yes” audibly crossed her mother’s lips, the battle had not been won.

“A lovely girl, isn’t she, Mama?”

“Don’t try my patience, Elspeth.”

“Just let me do this one last thing. Let me have a small taste of freedom, of friendship. Of belonging. Then I’ll go wherever you wish.”

Ellie stepped forward until she was but an arm’s length from her mother. Miss Breckenridge’s birthday party had become the most imperative engagement of her life.

They desperately needed the money—now more than ever, if another infernal cross-country trip loomed scant days hence. But even more than that, Ellie wanted to go. She wanted to see the estate so smothered with messy riches, to hear the music of an orchestra swell around her. And, if she was being honest, she really wanted to lay eyes on Mr. Macane once more. Not because she gave Miss Breckenridge’s fear of Lord Lovenip any credence, but because Ellie rather liked him.

He’d danced with her. Perhaps he’d do so again.

“Please, Mama.” Following her mother’s example, Ellie kept her voice calm and reasonable. “I don’t wish to fight. I would just like to spend a few days with a friend before we run off yet again to some remote place where we won’t know a single soul.”

Mama’s eyes narrowed. “A girls’ weekend, she said. Just the two of you and a kitten?”

“And her parents, of course,” Ellie put in quickly, lest her mother denounce the plan due to a lack of proper supervision.

“Very well,” her mother said with an appraising once-over and a sigh. “But do not make me regret this.”

“Truly?” Ellie’s stomach dipped in a swirl of glee and apprehension. “I can go?”

“We can go,” Mama corrected with a sharp nod. “I’m coming with you.”

Chapter Five

Cain cursed whatever demon had incited him to descend upon the Breckenridge country estate perched atop a whip of a curricle.

Vampires might be immortal, but immortality did not exempt one from the discomfort of foul weather. Thunderclouds enshrouded the sky, echoing Cain’s darkening mood. Where he had once been hopeful that tonight was the night he would encounter his elusive prey, now he was simply hopeful he’d encounter a roof, and with luck, a fire. He was shivering and soaking wet and miserable.

So were his horses.

The beasts no longer believed him when he promised their destination must be around the next bend. The ragged lightning coursing across the sky terrified the grays as much as the roaring thunder that followed. Yet the intermittent flashes of bright white shooting across the thick woods were the only source of light along the serpentine trail. His favorite mount had thrown a shoe over one of the many patches of fist-sized rocks atop unstable mud. But the smartest choice was to continue on. His lodgings were already an hour past, and his home a forgotten memory until he, as hunter, returned with the prize.

Rain-blurred lights flickered around the next bend. In his excitement, he scarce discerned a small, dark shape huddled directly in the path. His horses reared. Cain barely wrangled them under control in time to avert their course. He might have missed the trembling ball of mange altogether, had it not whined plaintively upon the realization it was about to be trampled to death.

Cain leaped from his rain-soaked perch, barely vaulting over his skittish horses. He landed hard on his left shoulder, but did his best to ignore the sickening snap and the sharp flash of pain. There was no time. He scooped up the shivering pile of wet fur and rolled out of the way seconds ere they both would’ve had the full weight of a pair-and-carriage squelching them into the mud.

If his horses had been alarmed before, now they were altogether panicked. They shot off along the pitch-black trail at a suicidal pace, the phaeton clattering perilously behind. Unsteadily, Cain hauled himself to his feet. He tipped his face into the driving rain and let the pelting drops clear the dirt from his eyes before bending his head to inspect the bundle quaking in his arms.

A puppy.

It licked his face, and Cain laughed despite himself. He’d lost his curricle, lost his horses, and broken his collarbone, but he’d managed to save the life of a half-drowned puppy.

“Stupid creature,” he scolded under his breath, but scratched its ears anyway.

He knew better than to stop for animals. He definitely knew better than to pick them up and cuddle them to his chest. But he loved animals and couldn’t resist rubbing the puppy’s belly and scratching behind its ears.

Wincing, Cain set off after his horses, puppy in hand and mud dripping from his face. When he’d accepted the Breckenridge invitation, he had wished to make an Appearance—and damn his arrogance, now he certainly would.

His clothes were ruined, his hair a fright, and his shoulder . . . Och, at least the snapped bone wasn’t protruding from his skin.

Had he been in Scotland, he would’ve already procured the sustenance necessary for rapid healing. But he was in godforsaken England trying to pass for human. Regardless, no maiden in her right mind would offer a nip to a mud-stained rogue in such abominable condition. He would simply have to give his best careless-rake smile and feign nothing was amiss. The usual.

“Well,” he murmured to the shivering puppy. “If we’re to be stuck with each other, we might as well introduce ourselves. You can call me Cain. And I’ll call you . . .” He studied the puppy in his arms. Light brown fur, dark brown eyes, a quick, wet tongue, and a whip of a tail that managed to slap Cain’s tender shoulder and spray dog-scented rainwater into his eyes with every swipe. “The more I think on it, the more I come to believe you’re the one who should be called Cain,” he informed the recalcitrant puppy, and was rewarded with exuberant face-licking. “As that’s already taken, you’ll have to settle for . . . Moch-éirigh.”

Closing his eyes, Cain shook his head in self-disgust. He’d lost his mind and named the damn thing. Hadn’t he sworn to himself a thousand times over that his puppy-adopting days were done? And hadn’t he triply sworn that he was done torturing himself by giving animals names that reminded him of home, and of things he could never, would never, see again? He’d named his grays Sunrise and Sunset, and now he’d gone and named the puppy Early Riser. As he had been, once. Back when it was a joy to greet the dawn and spend the day awash in sunshine.

A regular glutton for punishment, he was. He deserved the bittersweet reminder of who and what he was.

He took a deep breath—which only served to unbalance both dog and collarbone, and was unnecessary for survival in any case—and tramped forward into the night, his eyes squinting against the onslaught of rain. The puppy snuggled tight against his unbeating heart. They both desperately needed a bite to eat, so the sooner they descended upon the festivities, the better.

After what felt like miles but was likely no more than ten minutes of cursing and stumbling, Cain could fully make out the Breckenridge estate looming up from the darkness. Unlike Cain, his horses were apparently in no rush to make themselves known. Instead, the grays stood perpendicular on the muddy path, their faces buried in a thatch of rain-battered grass.

He managed to fetch the ribbons without dropping the puppy and hauled himself back onto his perch. With a tug, his horses abandoned their meal and resumed the miserable trudge to the Breckenridge stables. The ceaseless rain managed to cleanse nearly all the mud from both Cain and puppy, but had no ameliorating effect whatever on tangled fur or ripped linen.

The swarm of liverymen who rushed to greet the carriage had enough breeding to hide any shock at Cain’s appearance—or perhaps he was not the only guest to have arrived worse for wear from the vicious downpour. A stroke of fortune, since he was scarcely in any condition to Compel the minds of a dozen servants at once.

Nonetheless, brown and bedraggled was not at all the impression Cain hoped to make upon the weekend revelers, and his sole request of the obsequious footmen was to be granted admittance through a side door, so as not to cause a stir. This petition caused startled blinks all around, but in short order Cain found himself welcomed to Breckenridge via the connected conservatory, and ushered to sumptuous guest quarters featuring both a crackling fire and a large bath.

Heaven, Cain decided the instant he sank into clean, warm water. Hell, he amended, upon the unexpected accompaniment of his new puppy.

By the time the dinner bell sounded, Cain felt . . . well, if not like a new man, then at least like a reinvigorated Scottish warrior disguised as a harmless—and shameless—Society flirt. He had played this role for so long that sometimes he almost forgot he was acting. Both personas were men of single mind. The real Cain just wanted to return to his homeland with the missing vampire securely in hand. The false Cain just wanted the mysterious Miss Ramsay in hand. Rather, his hands on her bonny face, the fragile curve of her neck, the ample swell of her—

He groaned and considered dumping himself back into the oversize tub, dinner clothes and all. He meant the false Cain just wanted women. All women. Any women. The sillier the better, so as to afford greater access to the sweet nectar flowing hot beneath their perfect skin.

Why, then, had Miss Ramsay sprung to mind? She was far from silly, more warrior-like than waiflike, and she had no business whatever strong-arming his thought processes. Given that he was apparently the only one to have registered her presence at the Wedgeworth rout, they were unlikely to cross paths amongst the high-nosed Breckenridge set. And he was unlikely to cross paths with anyone at all, if the only thing he intended to do all weekend was kneel on the floor getting dog hair all over his gloves and breeches.

With a final pat for the puppy, Cain pushed to his feet and slipped out the door. Or he would have, had Moch-éirigh not been of a mind to follow along between her new master’s boots. Thus began a ten-minute farce wherein Cain and the puppy chased each other in and out of the doorway as they attempted to settle their difference of opinion. Cain won the battle, but only just. After securing the door, he leaned against the thick mahogany to pluck one-handedly at the stubborn puppy hairs clinging to his lawn and buckskin. He was thus engaged—though he pretended to be merely catching his breath—when the youngest daughter of his hosts entered the corridor bearing a lit candle.

“Miss Breckenridge.” He bent in a deep bow. “Felicitations on your birthday.”

The girl in question nearly jumped out of her skin. She apparently had not noticed his presence in the sunken shadows of his closed doorway. Now that he had made himself known, the horror in her visage seemed to indicate she rather suspected him of wishing to celebrate by ravishing her right there in the hallway. He wasn’t sure whether it was good manners or panicked indecision that held her frozen stiff, just ten paces away.

Presumably having decided between abandoning whatever mission set her in this direction and continuing on her path, she inched forward, albeit keeping comically close to the far wall.

“How do you do, Mr. Macane.” She inclined her head, but did not offer her hand. Instead, she lifted a gloved finger to her neckline and tugged a slender chain into view. A moment later, the chain’s pendant was revealed to be a delicate silver cross.

Cain cut his sharp gaze to her face, where Miss Breckenridge’s previous panic had been replaced by a highly suspect expression of wide-eyed innocence. She knew! No—how could she know? Besides, if she knew, she would hardly have admitted him for a weekend house party. And yet, his hunter instincts reminded him that nothing was ever coincidence. Particularly as his hostess continued to finger the silver cross and search his face for clues as to his reaction.

Moch-éirigh took that moment to ram into the other side of the bedchamber door. Cain whirled around to verify the security of the latch that, for the moment, appeared to hold. The puppy’s plaintive cries, however, were far from muffled. Nor were the unmistakable scratching noises of her tiny claws rending against the antique wood. Blast. Cain was not so foolish as to open the door and risk whatever wild behavior his new puppy longed to enact. Nor was he so foolish as to imagine his hostess would be remotely pleased at what were bound to be permanent scratch marks marring the interior panel of the door.

But when he turned around, to his surprise Moch-éirigh had succeeded where Cain had not—Miss Breckenridge was disarmed completely.

The silver cross was still visible, but lay forgotten against the lace fichu of her gown. Her candle listed precariously in her outstretched hand, and she was goggling at him with nothing short of wonder. Incredulous wonder, perhaps, but wonder nonetheless.

“You have a dog?” she demanded, her voice pitched high with the same level of shock in which another person might have asked, You have fangs?

“A cursed puppy,” he admitted with another bow. “You have found me out.”

Miss Breckenridge stared at him openmouthed, apparently content to stand there gaping at him until the small flame melted her taper to a nub.

“May I escort you to dinner?” he asked.

Suspicion returned to her features full-force, but Miss Breckenridge was astute enough to realize she had but two options: Give an invited guest the cut direct en route to the planned festivities, or place her palm on his proffered arm.

A well-timed whine by Moch-éirigh decided the matter.

She relinquished the taper to Cain’s free hand and settled the barest tip of her fingers on the crook of his evening jacket.

When they reached the intersection leading to the opposite wing, Cain’s muscles tensed. There had been no telltale sound, no scent, no flicker of flame or shadow, no hint at all that they were not alone—yet his every sense was prickling. He jerked his head around just in time to glimpse a slender woman at the far end of the corridor slip into the furthest chamber and disappear. For a moment, he’d thought it might be Miss Ramsay, but the movement had been too quick, too soundless. The only audible heartbeat had been that of the woman on his arm. And most damning of all: He’d recognized her.

“What is it?” Miss Breckenridge stammered, alarmed. “Did you see something?”

“A woman,” Cain answered. “Do you know her? Medium height, golden hair, very beautiful . . .”

“Of course I know her.” Miss Breckenridge’s lips pursed, as if she interpreted his interest to be of the licentious variety. “She is not to be disturbed. She’s a guest, just like yourself, and the reason I was in this wing to begin with. She has the headache and shall not be attending dinner, but I assured her anything she desired from the kitchens was hers for the asking, should she be hungry later.”

Cain’s eyes narrowed. If his instinct was correct, the woman’s hunger could not be quenched with anything present in the Breckenridge larders, short of partaking of the servants themselves. “Tell me—is she from the family Munro?”

“No.” Miss Breckenridge’s raised brow indicated she now perceived him as more of a dunce than a deviant.

He made no further comment. Perhaps his leap from the carriage had addled his brain as well as broken his shoulder. First he had thought his hostess suspected him of bloodlust, and then he imagined glimpsing an infamous runaway vampire under the same roof. What he needed was a nice, warm sip of fresh blood to clear his head and put his shoulder to rights.

“Come to think of it,” Miss Breckenridge said presently, “I’m not rightly acquainted with her given name. We simply addressed the invitations to Mrs. and Miss Ramsay.”

He came to a dead stop. “Ramsay?”

Miss Breckenridge nodded abstractedly. “She’ll feel worlds better after a good night’s rest. I’m sure you’ll meet her on the morrow, when we break our fast.”

“Is this woman any relation to the Miss Elspeth Ramsay you introduced to me at the Wedgeworth soirée?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light and disinterested.

“Her mother, of course,” Miss Breckenridge replied with a little laugh. “Although she looks more like an elder sister. A bit melodramatic that way, too—reminds me of my own sisters. She was in a perfectly pleasant mood until she realized there were meant to be other guests, and then suddenly it’s oh dear, I must retire from the shock, and off she floats. Her daughter is turned out excellently, though. She’s clever enough to—”

But here Miss Breckenridge broke off her speech, with a snap to her teeth and a blush to her cheeks. She stared resolutely forward, as if determined not to meet Cain’s gaze.

For his part, silence was just the thing, as his mind was reeling with implications and calculations. If “Mrs. Ramsay” was in actuality Aggie Munro, then of course she’d appear more like a sister than a mother, as her looks had been frozen at six-and-twenty. . . three hundred years earlier. Perhaps young Miss Ramsay was a great-great-great-descendant thrice removed or some such, but more likely she was simply a human lass, chosen for her superficial resemblance rather than any convoluted blood relation.

Because his glimpse had been from a distance and his quarry awash in shadows, the cynical side of Cain’s personality prepared for the possibility of mistaken identity. The elder Ramsay might well be human, and Cain not the slightest bit closer to his goals.

His heart was hopeful, however. Too many signs pointed otherwise. That was Aggie. He was sure of it. But what about Miss Ramsay? Since no vampire parents had ever beget a human child, some deeper game must be afoot. Servitude? Coercion? The very thought made his flesh run cold.

His castle had plenty of human servants, but all of them were perfectly aware of who they served, and how. Any of them were welcome to leave at any time—although they would be psychically Compelled not to breathe a word of the truth and to forget everything they had seen.

So, what was Elspeth Ramsay doing pretending to be Aggie Munro’s daughter? Either young Miss Ramsay had known all along whom Cain was and why he was so far from home, or else she was an innocent being dishonorably used by an unscrupulous vampire, either as an alibi, a distraction, or a slave. What if Miss Ramsay was an involuntary companion, forced into servitude by vampiric Compulsion? Aggie could have abducted her as a child, changed her name, forced her to forget her parents, her past life, her identity. Being human, Miss Ramsay would have been powerless to resist. She could also have been a food source for as long as she’d been an unwitting prisoner. Cain’s fingers clenched. A harmless nip here and there was one thing, but using thought control to enslave an innocent girl was quite beyond the pale.

If only there were some way to broach the topic without, well, broaching the topic. Cain frowned and quickened his pace. His desire to taste and touch Miss Ramsay had now been eclipsed by a desire to see her safe and well protected.

He glanced down at Miss Breckenridge. Although she seemed more discomfited than delighted in his presence, she, too, was an innocent and not to be exploited. Or was Miss Ramsay perhaps a willing participant in whatever scheme Aggie Munro was about? Cain shook his head. Even were that the case, a human girl clearly had origins outside of a vampire clan, which meant she came from somewhere, and whatever complicity Aggie had engendered in her young charge had undoubtedly arisen from machinations rather than fair play. Nonetheless, it was paramount to discover just how closely Miss Ramsay knew her “mother.”

Upon reaching the dining hall, Miss Breckenridge shot from his arm to join a gentleman undoubtedly leagues more eligible. Grouped in ranked pairs, the guests filed into the dining room to take their seats. The placard bearing Cain’s name was just far enough away from Miss Ramsay that there was no hope of private conversation, although his removed position on the opposite side of the table did afford him an unobstructed view of her profile.

She was lovely. Easily as comely as the infamous Aggie Munro. But unlike his quarry, whose beauty was legendary, Miss Ramsay seemed wholly unaware of her extraordinary looks. Her soft, red-gold curls framed large blue eyes and a lush rosebud of a mouth. Her gown, although not the first stare of fashion, boasted high-quality tailoring. The aquamarine confection complemented that lustrous hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. How she could believe anyone immune to her charms was beyond his ken.

Cain frowned to realize that the other guests were, in fact, incomprehensibly unaffected. No one glanced in Miss Ramsay’s direction, much less engaged her in conversation. Despite her being seated between two easygoing lads and directly across from a notorious flirt, none of the three seemed aware of her presence . . . nor did she attempt to engage their attentions.

Instead, she kept her eyes focused on her plate, where she spent the entirety of the meal nudging each course with the tip of her fork without consuming any of it. Did she seem paler than last he saw her, or was it a mere trick of the light? Perhaps she had taken ill. Bending his head to concentrate, Cain isolated the sound of each guest’s heartbeat until he recognized hers. Faint, but steady.

He lifted his gaze and considered her down-turned profile. She seemed to be having an absolutely miserable time. If she were not here of her own free will, such enslavement would drive another nail into Aggie Munro’s (figurative) coffin. But first, he needed to be certain. Look at me, he commanded her with his mind.

As before, his order went unheeded.

He gradually became aware of the conversation around him and was alarmed to discover a picnic had been planned for luncheon the next day. He would need a full feeding to be able to withstand the rays of the sun. Since that didn’t seem likely, he would be forced to remain indoors.

The moment the meal drew to a close, the gentlemen rejected the habit of retiring for port in favor of immediately joining the ladies for card playing. Cain would have preferred to stalk his prey. But as this was the last time the company would be together this evening, and he would necessarily be indoors much of the morrow, he would take advantage of the game play in order to steal a moment of Miss Ramsay’s time.

His opportunity came before the players had settled at the tables. Miss Breckenridge had been standing near Miss Ramsay until being borne away to determine which guests would partner at which tables. Cain positioned himself just behind Miss Ramsay. Close enough to whisper into her ear. Or to feather kisses beneath the curls at her neck.

“Miss Ramsay,” he murmured. She started, but did not increase the distance between them as she turned to face him.

“Mr. Macane,” she responded composedly, although her pulse pounded louder in Cain’s ears. He would have liked to attribute the phenomenon to mutual desire, but her expression gave nothing away. She nodded in the direction of his broken collarbone. “I trust you don’t suffer unduly?”

He very nearly gaped at her uncanny comprehension, then realized she was not referring to his swan dive at all, but rather to their previous encounter. “Nary a mark remains,” he assured her with a playful smile, “and you are welcome to bite me anytime you please.”

The sweet scent of blood teased his nostrils as a touch of pink feathered across Miss Ramsay’s cheeks as she lowered her eyes and glanced away. She was so easy to embarrass, so lovely, so . . . human.

Never before had the chasm between what he was and what she was seemed so insurmountable. He was a vampire. She was human. It would never do. As much as she intrigued him, he longed to experience the biting ritual shared by a vampire couple in love. There was no greater sensation in this world. And while Miss Ramsay would undoubtedly make a very bonny bedmate indeed, vampiric mating rituals were not something they would be able to share. Particularly since her humanity was one of the qualities he liked best about her.

Miss Ramsay’s humanity—and implicit mortality—brought the specter of Aggie Munro back to mind. He needed to find out what, if anything, Miss Ramsay knew . . . and then decide what to do about it.

He lowered his voice. “Have you been to Scotland?”

“I told you last time I had not.” She raised a brow at him in a mock-disgruntled expression. “Were you not attending?”

“I was undoubtedly preoccupied with my baser instincts at the time.” He gave an exaggerated leer and startled an involuntary giggle from her. He smiled back to distract her from the import of his next question. “How about your mother? Has she been to Scotland?”

“Mama?” Miss Ramsay repeated with choked laughter, as if she had not heard a more preposterous idea in her lifetime. “She won’t even visit the milliner, much less go on holiday.”

Cain carefully monitored her heartbeat and breathing pattern, but could discern no deception. Whatever Aggie Munro was about, Miss Ramsay was not privy to the wherefores. But perhaps there was still something to be learned.

“Ah,” he said sorrowfully. “Then you’ll not know about Foulis.”

Her brow furrowed. “Who’s Foulis?”

“Not a who, a what. Foulis was one of the most enchanting castles in Scotland . . . until it burned down yesteryear.”

Miss Ramsay’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Oh . . . is that why you’re spending time abroad? Foulis was your home?”

Cain shook his head. “Mine still stands. Foulis was home to clan Munro.”

The confusion creasing Miss Ramsay’s brow was genuine. “Then what does it have to do with me? Or my mother?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps nothing.”

And perhaps everything. When he rounded up Aggie Munro and dragged her back to Scotland to face the tribunal, where was Miss Ramsay meant to go?

Chapter Six

Well before dawn, Ellie awoke to hunger pangs so acute she had to clench her teeth so as not to cry out with pain. She must have been clenching them all through the night, because even her gums were aching terribly.

She couldn’t recall having consumed a single bite of last night’s meal. The inevitable row once Mama realized she’d been tricked into attending a house party had soured Ellie’s appetite completely. This morning there was no ignoring the biting pangs twisting her insides into painful knots. Ringing for service would only awaken Mama, however, and there was no sense starting the day with another terrible row.

Ellie dressed as silently and quickly as she could, but caught herself gnawing on everything within grasp—the nub of a pencil, the handle to a comb, even the knuckle of her own finger. If she didn’t find the Breckenridge kitchens soon, she’d be down on her knees chewing holes in the carpets.

The drowsy hall boy at the end of the corridor pointed the way to the kitchen before snuggling back into a large wingback chair. A stroke of luck. Ellie would just as soon pillage the pantry unaccompanied.

She had just finished off a leg of meat and was halfway through sucking the marrow from the bone when the distant creaking of a door snapped her back into the present.

Ellie jerked the tooth-marked bone from her mouth and stared at her red-tinged fingers in horror. Had she just eaten raw meat in a blind stupor? What the devil was wrong with her?

She dropped the bone into a waste bucket and slid the now-empty platter onto another. Desperate to rinse the bloody evidence from her hands and face before the kitchen staff came upon her, she hurried to the water pitcher—only to find it empty.

“Blast.”

Ellie scrambled to a rag bin and rubbed her mouth and fingers with a cloth that smelled strongly of brandy. No matter. She would far rather stink of wine at six o’clock in the morning than have her face smeared with the juice of . . . whatever she’d just consumed. Good Lord. She snatched a mint leaf from a nearby jar to cleanse both her breath and mind of the memory.

She tossed the rag back into the bin and swallowed the mint just as a small tornado of fur shot through the kitchen door and launched itself directly at her. Any remaining trace of foodstuff would have disappeared under the ministrations of an excited, lapping puppy.

Ellie’s pent-up breath dissolved in a burst of nervous laughter. Had she known her only witness would be a little tea-colored puppy, she wouldn’t have been so hasty in getting rid of the bone. In fact . . . why deprive the adorable creature? With the licking, wriggling puppy balanced in the crook of her arm, she picked her way back to the scrap bucket in search of the dropped bone.

Her success in this mission was rewarded with instant abandonment as the puppy snatched the bone from her grasp and shot into the shadows to noisily consume its prize. Ellie shook her head and smiled at the wagging tail just visible in the darkness. How marvelous it would be to have a pet! If only she and Mama didn’t spend so much time running from nothing to nowhere, perhaps Ellie would’ve been able to have a dog or a kitten or anything at all to call her own.

She was so entranced by the puppy’s overzealous tail-wagging and bone-chewing that she scarcely registered the kitchen door’s opening once more, until a familiar masculine voice spoke wryly from the corner.

“I see you’ve met my dog.”

She whirled around to find Mr. Macane lounging against the closed door, one hand hooked at his waist and the other lazily massaging his shoulder. Perhaps he hadn’t slept well. As she’d also been unable to settle into sleep, she’d spent hours at the window, gazing up at the moon.

“Good morning,” was all she said aloud, however. Being alone with a notorious scoundrel was scandalous enough without adding the topic of how he spent his nights to the mix. “I see you’re both early risers.”

Amusement flickered across Mr. Macane’s handsome features. “I don’t think she sleeps at all.”

“It’s a girl?” She grinned at the puppy’s wagging tail with renewed delight. “What’s her name?”

He gazed at the shadows as if debating whether to divulge a dark secret. After a long moment, he gave a one-shoulder shrug and replied, “I call her Moch-éirigh.”

“Mac Eric?” Ellie repeated doubtfully. “What a horrible name for a puppy.”

Mr. Macane blinked at her, then laughed. “Not Mac Eric. Moch-éirigh. It’s . . . Scottish.”

“What does it mean?”

A hint of a smile still played about the edges of his lips. “It means ‘early riser.’ ”

“Oh, it does not.” Ellie shook her finger at him in mock chastisement. “It probably means, ‘I love calling attention to myself.’ ”

“You too?” he answered innocently. “Why then, we have something in common.”

She laughed. “Unlikely. People who’ve never met you know all about your exploits, whereas those who’ve met me dozens of times recall neither my name nor my face.”

Mr. Macane’s raised brows indicated his skepticism. “I find that hard to conceive.”

“Believe as you will.” Annoyed with herself for having voiced such a private hurt, Ellie feigned an irreverent smile as if she’d been bamming him all along. “In any case, Mac Eric is certainly adorable.”

“Moch-éirigh, wench,” Mr. Macane growled good-naturedly. “And if you must know, it’s you I find captivating.”

“Did you just compare me to your dog?” Ellie gave her head an exaggerated shake. “And to think the gossips pegged you as an accomplished rake.”

His sea-green eyes focused so intently on her face that Ellie didn’t even register any movement in the room until she realized there was now a mere hairsbreadth between them.

“Do not belittle your own worth or underestimate the power of your beauty.” His voice was low, his gaze seductively honest. “While it’s true many so-called ladies are both interchangeable and forgettable, you are not one of them. The others may remember me, but they do not want me. They seek the idea of me. A moment, a night, a dance . . . something to talk about over tea. You are a mystery.”

Ellie gazed up at him, captivated as much by his intoxicating proximity as by his words. There was little ambient light in the small kitchen, but somehow she could see him clearly. Pale skin, high cheekbones, dark eyelashes framing light-green eyes. Even more striking were the bare neck at six o’clock in the morning and the contrasting chestnut mane caught in a leather band at the nape.

The most disconcerting of all, however, was how he smelled—or, rather, how he didn’t smell. Ellie had always been uncomfortably aware of the odor of others—dust, sweat, too much perfume. Mr. Macane’s scent was almost too light to be detected, pleasing to the senses but impossible to place, even for Ellie’s nose. She felt herself leaning into him, face upturned and mouth parted, trying to inhale his very essence.

His gaze dropped to her lips, as if he thought her angling for a kiss. Perhaps she was. He was so strong, so charming, so larger-than-life. And if his words could be believed, he was just as tempted as she was.

He dipped his head until their mouths were but a few inches apart.

“A few years from now,” he murmured quietly, “some other buck will be cutting a new swath, and my name will be forgotten. What makes me who I am is what I think about who I am. You must prize your own values above those that are forced upon you by Society.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “And when a bedazzled swain foolishly compares your beauty to that of his dog, just say thank you.”

“Thank you, foolish swain.” She returned his smile without retreating to a safer distance.

One of his hands lifted, coming ever so close to her face, but hesitating before going so far as to touch. Ellie’s body tingled, her every muscle tense with expectation and want. His fingers trembled. Longing to know how his ungloved hand would feel pressed against her cheek, she tilted her head just a fraction—but that’s all it took.

His hand cradled her face; his thumb gently caressed her cheek. The heat of his gaze never left hers. He lifted his other hand to the back of her neck to tangle in the mass of curls she hadn’t bothered to tame. He splayed his fingers against her nape as if meaning to pull her to him, but there was no need, because she was already falling forward, eager for his kiss.

His lower lip brushed hers, sending shivers of delight down her spine. She gripped his upper arms for balance, and because she’d been dying to feel the hard muscle beneath his jacket from the first moment she saw him. Impossibly, he felt even bigger than he looked, as if he could lift an entire carriage if he had a mind to. At the moment, Ellie seemed to be the only thing on his mind.

Lips parted, he rubbed his mouth softly against hers, once, twice. The third time, he traced the path with the tip of his tongue, as if yearning to know the taste of her skin, of her mouth. He pressed his body against hers, and this time when their lips touched, she felt—teeth.

On her ankle.

Loud barking filled the small kitchen as the puppy used claws and teeth to drive them apart, attempting to scale them both, as an adventurer would climb a mountain.

Startled, Ellie took a step out of harm’s way just as the puppy all but launched herself into her master’s arms—where Ellie herself had been, just seconds ago. For a precious, incredible moment.

“My apologies,” he managed to get out between dodging effusive puppy kisses. “It would seem Moch-éirigh is a bit jealous. You know how Scottish women can be.”

Ellie shook her head. “What would I know about Scottish women?”

“ ‘Elspeth’ is as Scottish as Moch-éirigh.” Twisting, he wrangled the puppy out of his hair. “An Elspeth by any other name—”

“Call me Ellie,” she interrupted before he could mangle Shakespeare further. “Only my mother calls me Elspeth.”

“As you wish, Ellie. You may call me Cain. Not even my mother calls me Mártainn.” He winked, as if waiting for her to catch on to a private joke. When she realized he’d used the puppy’s antics to distract her into first-naming each other, she burst out laughing.

“You’re shameless.”

“And more.”

The kitchen door burst open and a half dozen scullery maids rushed in. Their wide eyes went from the puppy, to Mr. Macane, to Ellie . . . and there they stayed. Probably they’d like an explanation for what an unchaperoned young miss was doing alone with one of the dashing male guests. Undoubtedly they hoped for an indication of why this clandestine rendezvous was in the kitchen. With a dog.

Since she hadn’t an explanation for any of it, Ellie simply smiled at the staff, dipped a half curtsey at Cain, and escaped without acknowledging the questioning stares.

When she reached her bedchamber, Ellie crawled back atop the mattress with her stomach full and her mind relentlessly reliving the feel of Cain’s mouth rubbing against hers and the sensation of his tongue tasting her lips. She dozed and awoke feeling strangely flushed.

The sound of her mother moving about the adjoining room indicated Ellie had overslept—and was likely in danger of missing the picnic.

She scrambled out of bed and rang for a maid. Last night, the thought of a picnic had seemed deathly boring, but now she couldn’t wait. She was eager to see how Cain would comport himself in the light of day. Would he be the consummate rake, flirting shamelessly with the other ladies as if no stolen moments had passed between them? Or would things be . . . different somehow? Ellie wasn’t so silly as to believe a single kiss would convert him from hedonist to lovesick suitor, but she couldn’t stifle the sudden wish that her wardrobe wasn’t so plain and her jewels nonexistent. A moment’s dalliance with Ellie Ramsay was all well and good when otherwise unengaged in the kitchens, but even in her finest gown, she would look a proper dowd when she stood amongst all the other young ladies.

Ellie groaned. Miss Breckenridge would certainly be present and in her rights to demand news of progress regarding her claim. Ellie had been so busy casting sheep’s eyes at Mr. Macane, she’d completely forgotten she was meant to be investigating his potential undeadness. There had probably been any number of reflective surfaces in the kitchen, and if she’d had her mind on her pocketbook rather than the taste of his lips, she could’ve proven the myth false in a trice.

In the meantime, however, Ellie meant to make the most of the weekend. Mama might be content to spend every moment sequestered in her bedchamber, but a ton house party was a rare opportunity for actual fun, and Ellie was damned if she’d let it pass by unenjoyed.

As soon as she put her hair to rights, Ellie headed straight for the hall . . . only to be waylaid by a voice from her mother’s shadowy bedchamber.

“Elspeth, where are you going at this ungodly hour?” Mama emerged from her chamber, somehow able to pull off an aura of regal hauteur despite being enshrouded in a flowing caftan.

“It’s half two, Mama.” Ellie gestured at the crack of light streaming from the bottom of the still-closed curtains. “There’s to be a picnic and perhaps riding.”

“But you can’t go out there!” Her mother’s strong hand once again grasped Ellie by the wrist. “You could get . . . sun fatigue.”

“I’ll be fine, Mama. I won’t forget my parasol.” Ellie tugged her wrist free and strode toward the door, then paused as she recollected an earlier concern. “Speaking of remembering things . . . All the furor over birthdays made me realize I can’t precisely recall my own age. I know this sounds ridiculous, but . . . How old am I, again?” She laughed lightly to cover her embarrassment.

Mama wandered away, as if just now noticing the small landscapes dotting the walls. “You’ll be two-and-twenty,” she answered distractedly. “The same as your friend. Don’t ask such silly questions.”

Frowning, Ellie watched her mother straighten the already straight frames, then turned and left the chamber before another argument erupted. But as she walked to join the others, Ellie couldn’t shake the suspicion that her eternally self-controlled mother had been unaccountably fidgety. It was unsettling to think Mama might have been hiding something, but Ellie couldn’t possibly imagine what there could be to lie about. Except for the niggling suspicion that Ellie had already turned two-and-twenty. Last year.

Before Ellie could consider the topic further, Miss Breckenridge spied her approaching and motioned her over to the small crowd. The marble antechamber smelled strongly of soaps and colognes. Lord Lovenip was nowhere in sight.

“I hope you’re hungry.” Miss Breckenridge fairly skipped across the entranceway to the front doors. “Cook has outdone herself!”

The butler flung open the doors. A passel of footmen bearing large baskets lined the pathway curving down the hillside. Beaming, Miss Breckenridge stepped across the threshold to lead the way, her guests filing out behind her.

Bringing up the rear, Ellie overheard one gentleman murmur to another, “Got yours?”

“It’s the only method of survival,” his companion replied with an irreverent grin. “Cheers!”

Laughing and jostling, they removed metal flasks from their waistcoats, clinked them together, then took turns downing healthy swigs.

Spirits of some kind, no doubt, but whatever it was had to be better than warm ratafia. After the events of this morning, Ellie couldn’t help but wish they’d offer some to her, too.

In unison, the two men swiveled to face her, flasks in hand. “Fancy a nip?”

Surprised at their apparent ability to read her mind, Ellie was startled into accepting one of the flasks. Although the gentlemen were watching her more vacantly than expectantly, they were now the only three left dawdling in the house. She might as well take a courtesy sip and have done, so they could catch up with the others.

Having successfully rationalized astoundingly unladylike behavior, Ellie gingerly tipped the flask just enough to taste its contents. Liquid fire scalded her throat and scorched her nostrils. Flask outstretched, she doubled over, coughing. Whatever it was, it was even worse than ratafia.

She hastened from the two gentlemen lest they offer her more spirits, only to freeze on the front steps when the sun’s rays hit her full on. The conversation with her mother had discomfited her so much that she’d forgotten her parasol after all. She’d been a child the last time she’d strolled in the sun unprotected, and all she could remember of that outing was ending up in bed for a week. But she was older now. Stronger. Besides, if she went back for a parasol, she’d lose the group completely and, like as not, end up arguing with her mother again.

Sighing, she curved a hand over her eyes to shield them from the blinding glare and hurried across the lawn.

Whether as a result of the sun’s heat or the effects of the devil’s own whiskey, she was dizzy and thickheaded by the time she rejoined the group. Not only were the guests’ individual scents overpowering to Ellie’s nose, she fancied she could hear their breaths, even their heartbeats, and was oddly distracted by every glimpse of a bare throat or ungloved wrist. It seemed all the ladies had been hoping for Mr. Macane’s accompaniment.

A steadying arm circled about Ellie’s waist. Who . . . ? Ah. Miss Breckenridge.

“Are you quite all right?” Her client’s brow knit, her voice low with concern. “You don’t look at all the thing.”

“All your fault,” Ellie managed uncharitably. “Can’t stop thinking about vamp—”

“Shhh.” Miss Breckenridge spun her away from the others. “Your breath smells like spirits.” She clapped a hand to her forehead as if she, too, had a devil of a headache. “Never say my brothers offered you drinks from their flasks.”

Ellie blinked slowly. “Those were your brothers?’

“Of course those audacious pups are my brothers—hence their humiliating stories today at breakfast. Oh! Of course. You didn’t come down.” Miss Breckenridge tsked. “You should know better than to imbibe spirits on an empty stomach, Miss Ramsay, and you oughtn’t sample anything my brothers offer, no matter how full your stomach. Why don’t you return to your chamber and lie down? Ring Cook for some soup. It’s miraculous, I promise.”

“All right,” Ellie mumbled, disappointed to be returning indoors a mere fifteen minutes into the day’s adventure but seeing no other recourse. With her head spinning so, she would never manage a long hike in the sun.

“You do look deathly pale.” Miss Breckenridge placed her hand on Ellie’s arm. “I shall have to accompany you.”

“No, no, it’s your birthday.” Embarrassment flooded Ellie’s cheeks. “I’ll be fine in time for dinner; don’t you worry.”

Miss Breckenridge’s pursed lips exposed her skepticism, but already her name was being called by various members of the party. “I’ll have my brothers take you. They did this; the least they can do is escort you inside.”

“I’m fine,” Ellie lied, willing her spine to steady. The last thing she wanted was more witnesses to this humiliation. “Go ahead. Truly.”

Without waiting for a response, she headed toward the house. She concentrated so hard on not tumbling insensate into the grass that at first she failed to notice she’d walked slightly off-target and was rapidly approaching the side of the manor, rather than the front door. Just as she turned to correct her mistake, the sound of rapid panting caught her attention. She lurched forward. With one hand splayed against the bricks for balance, Ellie leaned her head around the corner.

A large greenhouse protruded from rear of the manor. And there, frolicking in the conservatory’s long shadow, was Cain’s puppy.

Chapter Seven

Cain wandered restlessly amongst the dense greenery in the darkest nook of the conservatory, hoping to avoid both servants and revelers whilst his puppy cavorted out-of-doors.

His fractured shoulder was healing, although not as quickly as he would have liked. If he had been thinking about his injury, he would’ve spirited away one of the party’s insipid coquettes for a drop or two during last night’s card-playing. Instead, he had been thinking about the bonny Miss Ramsay. That is, when he was capable of rational thought at all.

After centuries of fruitless searching and prolonged homesickness, he had crossed paths with renegade vampire Aggie Munro. At long last, he could see an end to decade upon decade of solitary hunting, peppered by the occasional wild pup that invariably grew old and died, leaving Cain to walk his path alone. No more. If he could not talk the deserter into accompanying him peaceably, he would return her forcibly. He had not gotten close to his quarry just to fail now.

Then there was the question of returning Miss Ramsay—Ellie—to her real family. Whomever they might be. Depending on how much detail Aggie had Compelled her human companion to forget, Ellie might never recall her true life . . . or even her true name. “Elspeth Ramsay” was much too Scottish for a modern English rose. Aggie might have stolen her as a child, might have used enough Compulsion on the parents so that they even forgot they were parents, violating virtually every sacred tenet of the rigid Code at once. Unforgivable, as far as Cain was concerned, but the Elders valued his brawn, not his opinions. He was simply required to deliver Aggie to their mercy.

Victory was finally at hand . . . if unexpectedly bittersweet. Cain had no desire to turn Ellie’s world upside down and then abandon her in the wilds of England to fend for herself, but what choice did he have? He certainly couldn’t drag a human girl into the heart of vampire territory. Not without her becoming just another servant.

Without freedom, she would not be allowed to leave the keep, much less to return to England. Cain could never consign another person to the same desolate homesickness he himself had suffered. And he would never forgive himself if Ellie were Compelled to spend the rest of her life serving the Elders.

So why did he feel like he was losing something important?

Cain leaned his good shoulder against the conservatory wall. He bloody well knew why he regretted leaving Ellie. Because he liked her, dammit.

She was bonny, clever, delightfully skeptical. . . . He’d actually had to work to charm her and was not at all confident as to the extent of his success. She, for her part, had managed to charm him quite effortlessly, with her arch wit and unpredictability. Yet her very mortality ensured he could never have her. His clan only accepted fellow vampires as mates, and he would not turn her. Conversion had been banned for centuries, for good reason: Only one in a hundred survived the process. Even were it legal, it would still not be worth the risk. Besides, what he liked best about Ellie was her humanness. He’d damn near sprained his cheek muscles keeping his smiles at bay so as not to flash his fangs on accident. Being in her company was simply good fun.

Even if she could accept him for who and what he was, he still could not have her. Regardless of his clan’s laws against mating with a human, Cain wouldn’t be able to bear falling in love with someone who would grow old when he would not, who would die when he would not, who would leave this world—and him—forever.

The slight squeak of a hinge set his muscles on edge. If the sound heralded the arrival of servants or a groundskeeper, his gift of thought compulsion would keep unwanted questions at bay. But if the entire party had decided to take a turn amongst the exotic flowers, his blood-weakened state might not afford him the energy needed to Compel a multitude of people at once. He would be forced to . . . mingle.

With a sigh, he straightened to his full height and prepared for the worst. The thick rows of tangled flora offered plenty of shadowy nooks, but if Cain had never sought to hide from immortal warriors, he certainly would not cower from a gaggle of ladies and lordlings. Let them do their worst.

“Cain?” called a warm, familiar voice. “Are you here?”

From the first sultry syllable, Cain’s entire body stood at attention. Ellie. Bloody hell. He might have faced less danger with the picnic-goers after all.

“Here,” he managed, inanely pleased his voice hadn’t cracked like that of some green youth.

“Where?” she called, her footsteps falling faster.

Cain didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, because even as his addled brain sought to form a reply, she stepped into view. If he’d still had breath, she would certainly have stolen it away. He swallowed hard.

Although she stood at the opposite end of a long row of hothouse flowers, just enough dappled sunlight filtered through the tropical blooms to give her silhouette an angelic glow. Not that he needed the reminder. Stray curls danced alongside elegant cheekbones. A simple gown highlighted a perfectly curved figure that required no ruffles or flounces to distract the eye. The faint, but irresistibly sweet scent of her blood blended with the perfume of the flowers, pricking both his nostrils and his nethers.

“You look . . . dashing.” Blood infused her cheeks at the apparently unintentional compliment, but she boldly took another step in his direction.

Dashing? Cain glanced down at himself abstractedly. His costume was Corinthian out of necessity rather than personal style. After so many decades of ever-changing styles, the vagaries of vogue blended into incomprehensibility. Cain followed fashion in order to avoid looking like a centuries-old relic. He donned the sheep’s clothing du jour to better stalk his prey. Except for those ridiculous cravats. He’d never worn one as a warrior or as a Scotsman, so he’d be damned before he noosed himself every morning for the English.

For reasons of her own, Ellie had likewise not chosen to emulate French fashion to the letter. She didn’t need to. She would be magnificent in any clothing . . . or in none at all.

Rather than approach her, he kept to the shadows. “Where’s your chaperone?”

She idly caressed the petal of a bright orange flower. “With a dozen picnickers, there’s no need for individual chaperones.”

If only she knew. Cain shoved his hands behind his back to prevent himself from reaching for her. “Then where are the other eleven? Will the tour wend this way at any moment?”

“No, I’m . . . alone.” White teeth worried at her lower lip. Just when Cain thought she would choose to flee to the flock of humans, the corner of her mouth lifted in a hesitant smile, and she took an inexorable step forward.

She’d be the death of them both.

In warning, he summoned a rakish leer. “If you come much closer, I’m afraid you’ll find yourself thoroughly kissed.”

“I’m not afraid at all,” she answered shyly. “I confess I’m looking forward to the experience.”

Cain closed his eyes to block the temptation of her blushing cheeks and only succeeded in heightening his awareness of her scent. Her soap, her perfume, her blood . . . If his body had still been human enough to sweat, by now he’d appear the victim of a sudden downpour. He forced his eyes back open.

She was even closer. She had taken another step while he hadn’t been watching and was now a mere arm’s length away. The only thing keeping her innocence intact was his determination not to move a single muscle. If he allowed himself to touch her, if so much as a red-gold ringlet brushed against his skin, he would not be able to keep his desire leashed. An entire battalion of chaperones wouldn’t be able to stop him from kissing her, tasting her, having her.

“Are you all right?” Ellie took another step closer, her eyes filled with concern. “You seem . . . out of kilter.”

Out of kilter? Cain was breathing heavily, and he didn’t even need to breathe.

She lifted a hand, bringing the curve of her fingers near his face as if to check his cheek for fever. At the last second, she dropped her hand back to her side without making contact.

Thank God. His equilibrium had vanished with her arrival. His strength of will was preparing for flight as well. If she had touched him, he would have turned his face into her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm, to the pulse point at her wrist, to her—

Compulsion! He was a vampire; she was human. Compulsion would save him. Would save them both.

Run away, he commanded, letting the ferocity of his desire fill his gaze. Run now, and run far, or your innocence will be lost right here amongst the flowers. Flee whilst you can!

A slight frown briefly creased Ellie’s brow, but her gaze did not waver. If anything, her expression softened. Rather than run away, she suddenly seemed even closer, as if the hand’s width of air between them had been sucked from the conservatory, pulling them together. She tucked a stray tendril behind her ear, but this time her hand did not return to her side. Her fingertips slid from the curl and pushed through the thickened air to graze the side of his face, the rough edge of his jaw.

Cain’s entire body trembled from the effort to stay still, to not repay the joy of her touch with caresses of his own. Except he could not help but respond. He had meant to hold himself still as marble, but against his will, his hands freed themselves from behind his back, his entire body inexorably drawn to Ellie’s. He jerked away.

“When we were in the kitchens,” she said softly, her face tilting up to his, “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“I was,” he said, his voice as ragged as his self-control. “I still am.”

“Good.” She smiled up at him, but her voice was more passionate than playful. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Cain brushed the pad of his thumb along the soft curve of her cheek. When she tilted her face into his hand, he sank his fingers into her glorious hair and pulled her close. He dipped his head, intending to cover her mouth with his, but found pleasure in the sweet torture of anticipation.

He slowly feathered his parted lips across hers. Not quite a kiss, not quite a taste . . . just the lightest pressure, to tease them both, just as he had done this morning in the kitchen.

When he angled his mouth for another pass, she nipped his lower lip between her teeth.

The bite was sweet and quickly over, but Cain was as good as trapped. His muscles locked. His cock hardened. And when Ellie ran the tip of her tongue across the very flesh she’d just bitten, Cain’s whirling brain relinquished all hope of gentlemanly restraint.

Opening his mouth to the kiss, he surrendered to the moment. One hand cradled the back of her head, keeping their mouths firmly together. His other hand slid along the tumble of soft curls to her waist. He splayed his fingers across the gentle curve at the base of her spine. She clutched his shoulders. He drew her even closer, until not even a whisper could pass between them.

With the tips of her breasts pressed into his waistcoat and the bulge of his cock throbbing against the folds of her skirt, Cain expected reason to intrude upon the innocent young lady nestled against him and send her fleeing. Instead, she wriggled even closer as if she, too, found the friction delicious.

A tiny moan of pleasure escaped her lips, vibrating against his tongue and sending chills along his flesh. Her arms twined around his neck, locking their bodies together. Her increased heartbeat, her rapid breath, the delicious sting of fingernails clawing for purchase against the tailored smoothness of his jacket—the sensations were dizzying, invigorating. Unexpected.

She wanted him. She wanted him.

He’d been so focused on battling his own desire that he hadn’t even recognized the unexpected treasure he’d been bestowed. Rather than his emotionlessly Compelling an equally emotionless blue-blood beauty into the shadows for a nip-and-forget, a young woman whose company he actually enjoyed had sought him, entrapped him, kissed him . . . of her own free will. Her tongue toyed with his because she loved the interplay as much as he did. Her arms locked ever tighter because she, too, had no intention of letting go. And her kisses . . . Lord help him, he hoped they’d never stop.

Cain reveled in the feel of her body against his, wishing he could Compel all this damn fabric to disappear, so he could feel Ellie’s bare legs wrapped tight around his hips.

He was feverish. He was shivering. He was strangely, impossibly alive.

He kissed her again and again, unable to resist the scent of her skin, the spice of her kiss, the promise of pleasure in the accelerated beat of her heart. He lifted her in his arms, higher, higher, until his kisses fell against the source of the intoxicating rhythm. Each pounding heartbeat seemed to lift the arc of her breast closer, to press harder against his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, until he was no longer aware of anyone or anything except the salty sweetness of her skin and the rich aroma reducing his brain to animal instinct and uncontrollable desire.

Her breath against his neck was an irresistible aphrodisiac. Hot, humid, undeniably human, and erratic enough to expose her increasing passion, if her legs locked around his hips and her fingers digging into his back had not been signal enough. The tip of her tongue touched the sensitive skin hidden behind his ear. In response, he laved his own tongue across the trembling curve of her breast. She pulled the lobe of his ear into her mouth, ran her tongue across the captured flesh, then drove all conscious thought from his mind when she sucked the curved edge between her teeth. He responded in kind and suckled her plump breast, drawn to the beckoning heartbeat beneath that warm, white flesh. This was heaven. This could leave a mark. This could make his—

Oh God. The potent seduction playing out upon his earlobe changed from gentle nibbling to a gasping, carnal bite. Cain couldn’t have prevented his instantaneous reaction if he’d wanted to. In the time it took her human teeth to entrap the lobe of his ear, his fangs exploded from his mouth the way his cock longed to leap from his pants. His upper incisors pierced the top of her breast, impaling her flesh, and finally, finally, tasting that hot, sweet blood.

He tightened one hand on the nape of her neck, the other on the curve of her arse, grinding the full length of his imprisoned cock against the frothy waves of silk protecting her innocence from his lust. He suckled her hungrily, dizzy with desire and the addictive taste of her blood. He would rip this infuriating silk from her frame. He would rend his ridiculous vestments at the seams. And when nothing, not even passion-scented air, was between them, he would lock his teeth to her neck and penetrate her with his shaft and his fangs while she moaned in ecstasy.

Ellie gasped . . . but not in ecstasy. She went from fiery blaze to lump of coal in the space of an indrawn breath. She jerked from his arms before he had time to react—he, a vampire with allegedly superhuman instincts—and because she turned before his fangs had had a chance to retract, the retreating tips scraped across her white flesh, leaving twin trails of raw red where invisible pinpricks might have stood.

She clasped pale hands across her mouth, her shocked eyes screaming her fear and horror. The choked sob from behind her palm extinguished his passion more effectively than freezing rainwater.

She knew the truth.

He was a monster.

And he could not let her leave the conservatory with the knowledge.

“Ellie,” he said, torn between smiling in an attempt to display a normal row of teeth, and the knowledge that his pearly whites were currently stained pink with her blood. He rallied all the power vested in him to do the one thing that would protect them both: obliterate the memory of the sweetest tryst of his life.

Forget, he commanded silently. You didn’t see any fangs. You didn’t feel any fangs. I am not a vampire. Cain hesitated only briefly before adding, I made unwanted advances. You gave me a proper setdown. Stay away from me, Ellie. Stay far, far away.

He reached out to straighten the drooping shoulder of her gown.

She turned and ran.

Cain blinked. First Ellie had seemed all but immune to Compulsion, and now all of a sudden his unspoken command to stay away lit a fire under her hems as if—

Ah, hell. As if she’d just discovered her suitor was a bloodsucking vampire.

Cursing whatever it was about her that had distracted him from performing a proper thought compulsion—and cursing himself, his infatuation, and his impulsive fangs for getting him into this scrape to begin with—Cain righted his breeches and gave chase.

Chapter Eight

Ellie fled through the halls with both hands crisscrossed over her gaping mouth. The warm stickiness adhering to her fingers and the telltale coppery sweetness coating her throat were further evidence of the two-pronged proof currently distorting her lips:

She had fangs.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she panted as she ran, the syllables coming out muffled against the pressure of her hands. Her rational, orderly world had turned completely upside down in the space of seconds.

Batty Miss Breckenridge had been right. Vampires absolutely existed. Mártainn Macane was an incontestable example. She’d kissed the beast. Who had then bitten her. The spread of infection was instantaneous. And now she, Elspeth Ramsay, self-professed bluestocking and scholar of all that was mundane and logical, was a godless, soulless bloodsucking monster with razor sharp fangs. They protruded from her mouth, for the love of science.

She had to get out of the open. Fast.

Bad enough if someone would have entered the conservatory and chanced upon her and Cain in a compromising position. Unimaginably worse, if someone were to stroll down the corridor and happen across the lowest-born houseguest with a brand new set of fangs to augment her perpetual queerness.

Mama would know what to do.

Well, no, Mama would have no inkling what to do. Ellie hadn’t the least spark of a plan, and she was the analytical one. But her mother had been Ellie’s sole confidante since she was a baby, and as there was no one else to confide in anyway, they would just have to figure it out together. Along with how to rid Ellie of her recent yen for warm blood.

The hope of devising a working plan provided such a rush of relief, Ellie’s hand closed around the guest chamber’s doorknob before she realized there was no call for the other hand to keep covering her mouth. The strange fangs had retracted as quickly as they’d appeared.

Before she could even begin to puzzle out the reason, the sound of rapid footfalls spurred Ellie back into motion. She pushed open the door, flung herself inside, and very nearly bowled over her own mother as if playing a human game of skittles.

“Mama—” was all Ellie managed before she glimpsed the identity of the approaching observer.

Cain.

She slammed the door shut, slid home the lock, and leapt away from both as if she half-expected him to burst through anyway. He did not. When his footsteps finally receded, Ellie let out her pent-up breath and turned around. The sight of her mother’s blanched face sent Ellie’s heart into a panic all over again.

“Elspeth.” Mama’s voice was low, but each syllable thrummed with icy resolve. “You stay away from Mártainn Mac Eoin! Do you think he saw me?”

“Macane,” Ellie corrected automatically, then blinked to realize her reclusive mother had recognized a ton rake on sight. “And, no, he was looking at me. I didn’t even see you. How would you even know who he is? Had you met before?”

“Yes.” Mama shook her head. “No.” She jabbed a finger at Ellie’s midsection. “I’m not the one who needs to answer for myself. Since no one has seen me, everything is fine. But what about you? Did you join the picnic? Why are you back so soon? Where were you if not with the others?”

Ellie stared at her mother uncomprehendingly until it dawned on her that her mother’s alarm must be of the normal, everyday, overprotective variety. She had no idea anything was amiss. The lace of Ellie’s bodice covered the marks left by Cain’s fangs. Her own had disappeared before she’d entered the room. If her curls were topsy-turvy or her gown a bit mussed, well, when was it not? Ellie was having an existential crisis, and Mama . . . was simply being Mama.

With an inward sigh, Ellie realized that her hope of puzzling out this new twist in reality together had been a foolish one. Mama believed in the world as she saw it. Her biggest fear was that her baby was not enjoying the house party she’d begged to attend. Mama was safely ignorant of the evil lurking just below the surface of those around her . . . and Ellie was swept with a fierce desire to keep it that way.

Thus unable to confess what was truly bothering her, Ellie smiled as cheerfully as she could. She headed to the tea tray across the room as if she hadn’t a care in the world, hoping Mama wouldn’t notice her shooting covert glances at the gilded looking-glass above the bookshelf. Ellie’s familiar (if ashen) visage reflected back at her. Miss Breckenridge had been mistaken about the mirrors, then. Thank God.

“Everything’s fine, Mama.” Ellie poured herself a half cup of tepid water. Everything was not fine. Things could not possibly be worse. How could she expect to keep a secret of this magnitude? “I came back because I forgot my parasol.”

“So that’s what it is!” Her mother rushed to Ellie’s side and pressed the back of her fingers to Ellie’s cheeks and forehead. “Are you feeling weak? I told you not to go, and now look what’s happened. Do you need to lie down?”

Ellie slid out of her mother’s grasp. “I’ll be fine once I’ve had a sip of tea. I don’t have sunstroke, Mother. I have a dearth of social experience. I don’t know how to interact with Polite Society. Our ideas of what makes for interesting conversation are incredibly distinct.”

Mama stood for a moment longer, squinting down at Ellie as if searching for signs of trouble using microscopic vision. Apparently satisfied at last that her daughter appeared as normal as she ever did, Mama took a seat on a wingback chair opposite Ellie.

“Oh?” she asked as she settled back without partaking in the lukewarm tea. “What sorts of nonsense are the blue bloods mad about these days?”

Ellie added a lump of sugar to her cup. Now that she’d decided to pretend nothing was awry, she needed to come up with a few details capable of convincing her mother that the High Society houseguests were nothing more than a gaggle of inane fops and fribbles.

“Well,” she said slowly. “One gentleman asked me if I’d ever been to Scotland. Twice.”

Mama jerked forward, her eyes suddenly intense. “And what did you say?”

“No, of course.”

Mama’s hyper-focused gaze continued unabated, as if she suspected Ellie of holding back details. “Was that the end of it?”

Ellie shrugged. “More or less. Oh, and he talked about some estate burning to the ground. A castle . . . Foulis, I believe.”

“What? No. It can’t be!” Mother clutched the armrests with trembling hands and stared at Ellie with too-wide eyes. “Why would they . . . When? How? Are there survivors?”

“You . . .” Unsettled, Ellie’s stomach began to churn with a sick feeling that had nothing to do with stale tea. “You’ve been to Scotland, haven’t you?”

Mama’s eyes glazed. “I—”

Ellie put down her cup hard enough to crack the china saucer. “You’ve been to Castle Foulis. Haven’t you?!”

Mama gave her head a violent shake. “I—”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed. “If you lie to me, Mother, I shall never forgive you.”

Mama’s chin lifted in her customary hauteur, then her face crumbled into a wholly unfamiliar expression of guilt and despair. Nothing could have frightened Ellie worse.

“I certainly hope that is untrue,” Mama said quietly, “for I have told you many lies in order to keep you safe.”

Frowning, Ellie leaned forward. “Safe from what?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The tips of Ellie’s fingers traced the twin welts beneath the lace of her bodice. “Try me.”

Her mother slumped against her armrest, the sorrow in her eyes now tempered by a faraway look of remembrance. “Scotland. . . is very beautiful and very old. Memories are passed down through the generations, and magic is considered commonplace.” She shifted her gaze to the thick curtains covering the window. “There are even those who still believe the legends of the vampires of yore. . . .”

“It’s no myth,” Ellie muttered behind her teacup. Her mother shot up from the chaise. Out of surprise, Ellie did the same.

“Then you know?” Her mother’s voice cracked on the final word.

More confused than ever, Ellie ran the tip of her tongue over her sore gums before replying. “I am irrevocably convinced, although I admit to not understanding this conversation in the least.”

“Oh, Elspeth.” With the tea tray still on the table between them, Mama reached over to briefly lay a hand on Ellie’s cheek. “I owe you an apology. And an answer to all your questions. I had no idea you suspected . . . that you knew . . .”

Ellie stopped massaging her sore gums as trepidation set in. Whatever she thought she knew was merely the tip of an iceberg she hadn’t even known existed. The sick feeling in her stomach increased sevenfold. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning?”

“The beginning?” Mama’s laugh was high-pitched and humorless. “A few hundred years are far too many to recount in one sitting. Suffice it to say, I barely recall who I was before I became what I am now. I lived . . . if not happily, then at least contentedly under clan rule until early last century, when I met your father. He was so sweet, so—”

Ellie shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her ears. “Beg pardon, I thought you said . . . early last century?”

Mother nodded abstractedly. “It was forbidden, of course, under penalty of death . . . but a woman in love cannot refuse the call, even if she has the ill fortune of being in love with a human. And an Englishman, at that. He was—”

“You’re saying . . . you’re a vampire?” Ellie blurted as the pieces fell into place. Her flesh grew cold at the obviousness of the truth, now that her empirical mind could no longer disbelieve the signs. Her legs suddenly unsteady, she fell back to the chaise as if awakening from a stupor. “You are!”

Mother perched back on the edge of her seat, her gestures nervous, her eyes guilty. “Was that not what we were discussing?”

Ellie’s sudden laugh bordered on hysteria. “No, not at all, but pray continue. It seems I need to know your story in order to better understand mine.”

Watching her daughter uncertainly, Mama stammered at first, then let loose with a torrent of words as if a dam had broken free.

Ellie, on the other hand, could only listen and stare, unable to make a sound. Anger, disbelief, and wonder all crashed together as she tried to assimilate the flood of unforeseeable information and unbelievable twists to what she thought she knew about her own life.

Her mother was a vampire.

She’d been reborn in Castle Foulis, centuries ago, where she’d lived amongst dozens more of her kind. There was a clan. A family. A government.

Her mother was a runaway.

Outside of master-and-servant or hunter-and-prey, relationships with humans were verboten. Sexual relations were forbidden above all things, even though mixed-blood procreation was believed to be a myth. A mixed-blood relationship was repulsive and offensive in and of itself. Therefore, the only way for her mother to be with the human man she loved was to denounce everything that she knew and run.

They were being hunted.

If breaking the cultural mores of her brethren weren’t bad enough, Mama had also broken a betrothal contract. The vampires of Foulis Castle had agreed to sacrifice their most beloved maiden to the leader of the Pitreavie as a token of peace to end centuries of territorial disputes. Mama had been commanded to submit to the Elders’ bidding. But her heart was not theirs to rule.

They were in danger.

Searchers had been sent after Mama to bring her to justice over her transgression, but Ellie was the greater reason her parents had stayed hidden. Even in legends, half-human offspring were considered an abomination. Mama would be sent to the Pitreavie clan or to the castle dungeon. But discovery of the secret behind her daughter’s existence would be Ellie’s death warrant.

They were rich—but it did not help.

Mama had once been a high-ranking member of her society. She had a hidden cache of precious jewels that had been given to her by family and suitors. But despite its value, the jewelry could neither be worn nor sold because its very singularity meant it could be easily traced. Therefore, every time Mama had been forced to sell a piece for survival money, they’d had to quit town that night and travel as far as they could, before news of the sale had an opportunity to spread.

Ellie’s father hadn’t died before her birth, after all.

His name was Nigel. He’d been married to her mother for thirty years before Ellie was born, and died of old age decades later . . . while his daughter was barely out of leading strings.

“We thought you were human,” Mama explained softly. “He knew what I was, and still we dared to hope. You weren’t developing like other children, and I talked myself into believing you were a late bloomer . . . until even I couldn’t deny the truth. You didn’t grow at the normal pace and ceased aging altogether by the time you gained your current appearance.”

Ellie stared at her mother in both hurt and horror. “You knew I was a vampire and didn’t think it important enough to mention?”

“It came up,” her mother admitted. “Frequently. But as long as you were more human than not, you were still susceptible to a thought obfuscation technique we refer to as Compulsion. Whenever you asked dangerous questions, I simply Compelled you to forget.”

“You ‘simply’—”

“For your own safety, Elspeth! What would you have had me do?”

“Tell the truth, for starters!” The teacup tumbled from Ellie’s fingers as the full impact of her mother’s words hit her. No wonder she had so many holes in her memory! Ellie’s head swam as an ugly suspicion sucked the air from the room. “Did you Compel me to forget my own father?”

Her mother reached out a hand. “You would never have believed you were human if you could remember decades passing whilst you were still a tot. I had no choice but to—”

“No choice?” Ellie repeated, choking on the words. She sprang to her feet. “You gave me no choice!”

“You hadn’t turned yet! You still haven’t turned. There was plenty of time for you to have a normal life. There still is. Maybe decades, centuries even. I know this must be difficult for you, but—”

“You know nothing.” Ellie whirled for the door, her head still spinning with hurt and rage and the desperate desire to flee the one person she had always gone to for comfort and advice. Even as the world tilted off its axis, Ellie could hear her mother scrambling to her feet behind her.

“Wait!” Hesitation shook her mother’s voice as she added, “Elspeth. . . I—I Compel you to stay!”

But Ellie wasn’t mostly human anymore. No longer Mama’s little girl, susceptible to vampiric head games. No longer even herself.

Ellie was out the door and gone.

Chapter Nine

Ellie had barely sprinted free of the guest quarters when an arm flashed out of the shadows, hooked about her waist, and reeled her into a small music room. The obsidian shine of a hulking piano was not what set her nerves afire, but rather the man whose strong arms locked her body to his.

Cain.

“Let me go.” Struggling to break free, Ellie pushed at his chest. “Leave me alone.”

“I just want to talk.” His voice was soft, worried, sincere.

She couldn’t have cared less. “I’ve heard more than enough for one day. I need to be by myself for a while.”

Despite the hesitant warmth in his voice, Cain’s grip did not slacken. “I can’t let you do that. Not after what happened.”

Ellie froze mid-struggle.

Not after what happened. He’d seen her fangs! And the fact that he had them, too, could mean only one thing: He was one of the hunters her mother had warned her about. Had been hiding from her entire life. And now that he knew the truth—thanks to her pursuing him, of all things—she and her mother were both going to die. Cain wouldn’t let her go, now that he had her. And Mama would never stand by and let her be taken.

“Please,” she whispered, risking a glance up at him to gauge his anger. “Not like this.”

However, he did not appear to be angry. If anything, his expression was stricken. His fingers relaxed, and he took a half step backward.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice was low, but even she could hear the note of self-recrimination. “I just meant to kiss you. That’s all. I’d been longing to taste your lips from the moment we met, and I never meant to indulge that desire, much less . . .” He gave a dry little laugh and continued, “Much less bite you. That’s the problem with being . . . what I am. Less human. Less thinking. More instinct. If I could make you forget it ever happened, I would. To be honest, I even tried.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’ve been so long from my homeland, so long without a proper supply of . . . sustenance, that my powers aren’t what they once were. I don’t want you to be hurt. I can’t hurt you. And so I am asking you, not as a vampire but as a man, if you could find it in yourself to please keep my secret.”

His face was so earnest, his eyes so candid, his meaning so at odds with anything and everything she’d been expecting, that Ellie stared wordlessly up at him for a long moment before making sense of any of it.

He still thought she was human. He was afraid of her reaction, of what she might do. Ellie could have laughed at the sheer irony if she weren’t so close to tears.

For the first time in her life, a handsome gentleman actually liked her. Longed to kiss her. Fancied her. Right at the moment when she was no longer the girl either one of them thought they knew.

She was a vampire now, but nothing else of import had changed. She was still in the lowest class of her peers. An outcast. An abomination. And instead of simply receiving a cut direct, once the truth became known, heads would roll. Namely, hers and her mother’s. She couldn’t let that happen. But for how long could she hope to hide the truth from a centuries-old vampire hunter?

“I won’t tell anyone,” she promised. Years of unflinching honesty made her add in a mumble, “Except maybe my mother.”

“Oh, Ellie, you can’t. Your mother . . .” He gazed at her unhappily, as if trying to determine how best to candy-coat some undesirable truth. “I have reason to believe your mother isn’t truly your mother. No, don’t say anything. Come sit down. You can hear me out and then decide.”

He led her to the piano bench and seated her upon the cushion. He stepped back, paused, then stepped forward. He picked up her hands and held them tight. He let go as if her touch had scalded him and shoved his hands into his pockets instead. He sighed.

“Just because I currently find my Compulsion skills lacking does not make it any less real. I’m afraid that the woman you know as your mother cannot possibly be so. You are human. And she is as human as I. The woman you know as ‘mother’ is actually Agnes Munro, a vampire even older than me.” He gave Ellie a hard look, as if half-expecting her to tumble off the bench in a dead faint. When she did not, he took up her hands again and fell to his knees before her. “Listen to me, Ellie. You are in danger.”

Ellie shook her head. “She would never hurt me.”

“You wouldn’t remember if she had.”

“I would know.”

“Look at me,” he insisted softly. “You have a logical mind. Use it. Do you remember your youth? If not, that’s because she stole it from you. If you cannot recall your parents, it’s because she erased the memory of them right from your brain.”

This latter hit close enough to the truth that Ellie flinched involuntarily. She tried to mask the unwanted flash of hurt, but it was too late.

“See?” he murmured sadly. “Some part of you recognizes my words as true. Who knows what else may have been cleaned from your mind. Perhaps you have even served as an easy meal for years, or even decades.”

Ellie recoiled so violently that if Cain hadn’t been clasping her hands, she would have tumbled right off the bench. A source of food for her own mother? What a repugnant idea. Mama would never have done such a horrific thing . . . would she?

“Listen to me, Ellie. Listen to your own heart. If you don’t feel safe, it’s because you are not. If you don’t feel free, it is because you are not. And you should be. You deserve to be.”

“And my mother?”

“She . . . does not.” His spine straightened, and his shoulders seemed to expand. “Besides her crimes against you, she must also answer to her clan for crimes committed in the past, contracts broken in direct violation of blood oaths she voluntarily swore to uphold.”

“Are you her judge, her jury, or her executioner?” She tried to jerk her fingers from his hands.

“Neither,” he answered, holding fast. “I am a hunter. A warrior whose primary use to his clan is his superior ability to find that which doesn’t wish to be found. Two hundred years ago, I was sent to find Agnes Munro. I have found her. And I will bring her home.”

“That’s it? Your clan just says, ‘Go fetch this woman, dead or alive,’ and off you go for two hundred years?”

“Preferably alive. And yes, that’s what hunters do. Their duty.”

Ellie glared at him. “What do you mean, ‘preferably’ alive? That bit’s optional?”

“The elders mean her no permanent harm,” he answered carefully.

“Ha. Then why did she run away?”

“She’d broken a cardinal rule, which at that time was punishable by death.” The pads of his fingers stroked the backs of her hands. “But times have changed.”

Ellie chuckled bitterly. “Have they?”

Cain’s brow creased, but his answer was firm. “Yes.”

“Then what are the new rules?”

“No more death. There are less of us now than ever before. The elders can’t afford to enforce the old ways. Either we change with the times, or we all die.”

“So her crimes have been forgiven? Or will she spend the next millennium chained to a dungeon, expected to be grateful to still be alive?”

“Ellie.” Cain still knelt before her, Ellie’s hands still clasped in his. “Stop worrying about Agnes and start thinking about yourself. You can’t go back to how things were. And you can’t go back to Aggie. I’m taking her with me. And then I’m going home.”

“What are you suggesting I do?” she demanded, as suspicion began to creep back up her spine. “Go with you?”

“Oh, good Lord, no.” Cain’s surprised laugh was short, but genuine. “When I said vampires were dangerous, I most certainly was not exempting myself. I’ve already taken a bite out of you uninvited. And here I am, making bad decisions worse by abducting you into a piano room and confessing clan secrets you have no business knowing. As I said, if I could have bade you forget, I would have. So to that end, I am no better than Aggie. Going forward, I want you to do whatever it is that you want to do. I want you to be safe.”

Ellie shook her head. “But if I’m not with her, and I’m not with you, then I’m alone . . . and how safe is that? I may be legally of age to fend for myself, but with no money and no property and no particular skills outside of reading books and solving riddles, where exactly do you propose that I go?”

Cain dropped onto his haunches and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his eyes were haunted.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “You’ll have to decide. I have never been in this situation, and even if I had, I would never presume to make your decisions. I have some money. You’re welcome to it. I just need enough coin to return home, which should leave you with more than enough to take up residence somewhere, to be an independently wealthy, thrice-removed cousin of some far-flung nob. For long enough to make a new life, make human friends, and perhaps . . . perhaps even fall in love.”

Love. Her hands still rested in his. Ellie nibbled her lower lip and gazed back into his eyes.

Within days of meeting her, Cain was doing the one thing her own mother hadn’t done in over a century: voluntarily entrusting her with the truth and allowing her the right to weigh the evidence herself in order to make her own choices about her life.

Unfortunately, he was only in possession of half the evidence. As lovely a picture as his words had painted, Ellie was no longer a simple human girl, if she ever had been. And no matter how angry she was with her mother’s decisions, Mama was still the person Ellie cherished above all others. Mama’s life was inextricably tied to hers, and there was no way Ellie would allow either of them to face a vampire tribunal over a lovesick girl’s rash decision two centuries ago. They would slip through the night, as they’d always done. They would hide from hunters—from Cain—forever, if that was what it took. And none of them would ever go home.

“Tell me about Scotland,” she said, surprising herself as much as Cain with the change in topic. Scotland wasn’t home, she reminded herself sternly. She had never had one. She never would.

“Scotland is lovely,” he answered, his voice wistful. “The countryside is more beautiful than any other place in this world. The men are braw and true. The women are bonny and clever. The food is hearty and the ale even richer. The people are strong and proud. Proud of themselves, of the land, of each other.” He dropped his forehead onto her lap. She couldn’t help but brush her fingers over his hair. He didn’t stop her. “Everyone is happy there. I was happy there.” He lifted his head to favor her with a crooked smile. “I wish you could see it.”

She smiled back. “I wish I could see it the way you see it.”

“If I weren’t a . . . warrior,” he said, his smile fading, “I could take you there.”

Ellie was shocked to discover she wished he could, too. But he was never going to see his beloved country, since he was never going to capture her and her mother. Ellie tried to ignore the guilty pang caused by the realization, but it was no use. She hated to cause him pain. Which meant she was just as bad as her mother—developing feelings for exactly the wrong man.

He was handsome, strong, charismatic. Loyal to a fault. He liked her body and loved her brain. He respected her. He wanted her to be happy. . . .

And he was a vampire warrior planning to lead her mother to an unknown punishment. And he would undoubtedly abduct Ellie as well if he knew she was a forbidden mixed-blood abomination.

But he didn’t know. Not yet, anyway. And if she was addled enough to fall for someone honor-bound to hunt down her loved ones, well, that was her problem. She didn’t mind his mischievous run as the most infamous rake in ton history. She didn’t even mind that he was a vampire. If anything, now that her true nature had been revealed, she could scarcely fancy a human, anyway. But even more important than all those very logical truths was one very illogical fact: She was half in love and falling fast. And she was never going to see him again.

Ellie’s shoulders slumped. She’d never enjoyed running away. Although now that she knew the truth and couldn’t agree more with the rationale, her body and her heart still rejected the idea of leaving this man without a second thought. Without a second chance. If she was going to be on the run for the rest of her life, then she needed to make the most of this weekend.

She squeezed his hands. “May I beg a favor?”

He smiled. “Anything.”

“Wait until tomorrow.” Hope bloomed when he didn’t immediately respond. “Please,” she added for good measure.

His brows lifted, but his voice was good-humored as he said, “Why do I feel like this is a terrible idea?”

“Because it is,” Ellie answered honestly. “And so is the part where I come to your chamber after nightfall.”

He started. “When you what?”

She took a deep breath. “The house party is over tomorrow. Everyone will go his or her separate paths. If we are going to part ways forever, perhaps we can at least have tonight.”

Before he had a chance to respond, the music room door swung open, and Miss Breckenridge stepped inside.

“Get away from her!”

Cain dropped Ellie’s hands and sprang to his feet, but not before Miss Breckenridge landed a few good whacks with her parasol.

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” Sidestepping Miss Breckenridge’s attacks, he managed to trade places with her at the door and shoot Ellie a meaningful glance over Miss Breckenridge’s head. “I’ll be in the conservatory if you need me.”

“She won’t need you,” Miss Breckenridge shot back. She slammed the door in his face, then rushed to inspect Ellie’s neckline. “Are you all right? Did he bite you? What on earth possessed you to enter any room alone with him?”

“He didn’t bite me,” Ellie assured her, before her predilection for honesty forced her to add, “. . . on the neck.”

Miss Breckenridge stared at her in horror. “What? When? Are you a vampire, too? Oh, this is a horrible mess, a horrible, horrible—”

“Forget I said anything,” Ellie interrupted wearily, rubbing at her temples. “Forget anybody said anything about vampires in the first place.”

Blessed silence fell . . . until the noiselessness became more eerie than relaxing.

Ellie lifted her fingertips from her temples and glanced up at Miss Breckenridge, only to find her erstwhile benefactress staring blankly at nothing.

“Miss Breckenridge?”

With a start, her hostess snapped out of her fit. “Miss Ramsay! What are you doing in the music room? You should be abed. May I walk you to your chamber?”

Ellie stared at her for a moment before she realized she’d just Compelled her client to forget their entire agreement. Now she’d never earn those twenty pounds . . . and now she could better understand her mother.

Mama loved her, and Ellie hadn’t given her a chance to explain. Perhaps she’d never meant for Ellie to forget her father. Ellie sighed. Perhaps it happened in a moment too quick to have prevented. And once it was done, it was done, leaving her only with regret. And her daughter.

“I think you’re right.” Ellie rose from the bench to accept Miss Breckenridge’s arm. “I should love to return to my mother.”

Chapter Ten

A scant distance into the corridor, Ellie jarred to a halt. She held up a finger to a startled Miss Breckenridge. “Wait.”

There was no way she could return to her guest quarters. Mama would be waiting in her chamber. She would wish to finish their discussion. She would wish to explain. Perhaps to apologize, and perhaps not. But without question, she’d insist on running. Immediately.

Ellie could scarce deny the wisdom behind putting as much distance as possible between her outlaw mother and the clan hunter who sought them, but she was not quite ready to pack her bags. She had told Cain she would meet him tonight, and she meant to. Yearned to. Needed to.

He truly cared for her, and she him, star-crossed though they might be. He had answers her mother had not shared. He also had expressive eyes, strong arms, and kisses that set her half-blood heart spinning.

That she would never see him again went without saying. After coming so close to capture, they could never again risk so much as a nodding acquaintance with their new neighbors, wherever they landed next . . . much less house parties or dancing or a beau who stole kisses amongst the flowers.

But they hadn’t left yet.

“What’s wrong?” Miss Breckenridge cocked her head quizzically. “Have you the headache?”

Lifting her brows, Ellie nodded slowly. She had more than enough to make her head ache. The last thing she needed was another confrontation with her mother.

“I think I’d like to be alone for a little while.” She gave her hostess a determined smile. “Don’t worry about me. Why don’t you check on the other guests, or take the evening for yourself? Find something diverting and enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.”

Miss Breckenridge’s eyes unfocused. Then she nodded once, turned, and wandered off without a word.

Ellie stared after her for a moment, feeling more than a little guilty. Either she’d inadvertently offended her hostess . . . or once again, she’d circumvented her free will with accidental Compulsion. Ellie was definitely going to have to wrangle that skill under control before—No. Mastery over Compulsion wouldn’t matter one jot, once she and her mother were confined to some shadowy hovel in the middle of nowhere.

Sighing, Ellie retraced her steps and headed for the opposite wing. Cain had said he’d meet her in the conservatory. Granted, she’d said she wouldn’t meet him until tonight, but given that her own guest chamber was no longer a viable retreat, the conservatory would be as peaceful a place to wait as any.

When she arrived, she found herself alone amongst the many blooms. The spicy scent of exotic flowers enveloped her. She wandered up and down the lush walkways, ducking low-hanging vines and pausing now and again to run a fingertip along the satin petals of a particularly breathtaking bloom. She was thus engaged when she sensed, rather than heard, a presence behind her.

“You’re early,” he said softly.

Smiling, she spun to face him. “As are you.”

“I couldn’t wait.”

She glanced behind him. “No Mac Eric this time?”

Cain shook his head, his eyes crinkled with laughter. “I tried. But we weren’t five paces from my door when we chanced upon an unaccountably effusive Miss Breckenridge. Quite a departure from her reception in the music room.”

Ellie coughed guiltily. “Amicable, was she?”

“She hugged me,” her vampire warrior replied as if he’d never suffered a worse indignity. “I asked her if she’d like to pet the puppy, and she said she’d like to keep Moch-éirigh forever.”

“So you’re letting her watch Mac Eric for a while?”

He shook his head. “I let her keep her.”

“But you love that puppy!”

“Trust me,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “I have no difficulty stumbling across loveable puppies. I’ll probably find another before we even leave the conservatory.”

“Are we leaving the conservatory?” Ellie tried for an arch look, but couldn’t help grinning up at him.

His sea-green eyes were nothing short of smoldering. “Aren’t we?”

She accepted his proffered arm without hesitation. A delicious shiver slid up her spine. Her shoulders rolled backward in response, causing her breasts to rise and her bosom to tighten. She was acutely aware of every inch of her body, of the thin fabric of her chemise brushing against her flushed skin. She felt oddly naked beneath the oppressive layers of lawn and linen and silk. As if Cain’s heated gaze could see right through the lace and flounces and corset to the woman trembling beneath.

Her fingers clutched his arm even tighter. Even voluminous shirtsleeves tucked into a well-tailored jacket could not disguise the strength contained within, the toned muscle of his body. Hard. Strong. Hers.

This was what she’d been waiting for. Longing for. A moment to cherish forever.

The walk from the conservatory to Cain’s guest quarters might not have taken half so long, were it not for his inability to refrain from sidelong glances that led directly to stolen kisses. With her curls crushed between her back and the wall, and her hands wound tight about his neck as she eagerly met each kiss with her own, a single passerby would have spelled ruin if she were at all concerned about guarding her reputation. She was not. Her legs were all but twined about him as he spun with her across the threshold and into the dark stillness of his bedchamber at last.

She half-expected him to tumble directly upon the bed and divest her of these confining layers. Rather, that was precisely what she hoped he was about.

But, first, he kissed her soundly before stepping a few feet away to coax the dwindling embers in his fireplace into a softly burning blaze.

The dancing light fell upon a sumptuous master bed, with matching mahogany nightstands on either side. Upon one stood a vase with a single pink camellia. On the other rested a life-size marble bust of what was undoubtedly one of the Breckenridge forebears. Ellie focused her gaze back on the single flower, preferring its natural beauty to the profile carved in stone. The bust’s very presence made the general sense of inferiority Ellie had always endured even starker. Not only wasn’t she remotely connected to aristocracy, she couldn’t even remember her own father, much less have mementos of cherished ancestors. She’d always just had Mama.

Ellie sat on the edge of the bed and tried to push all thoughts of her impending sojourn from her mind. She tugged her slippers from her feet and bent to smell the camellia. As lonely as she had been without a father, how much worse had it been for her mother to have loved and lost her husband? Would this moment shared with Cain bring Ellie years of remembered pleasure, or soul-wrenching dreams of what she had once tasted, but could never truly have?

She shook the foolishness from her head and turned to face Cain. She would have tonight . . . and it would be perfect.

He rose to his feet. The fire’s welcome heat eased the chill from the air, and the crackling flames cast a warm glow upon his skin as he reached for Ellie’s hand. He stared at her as if she were the exotic flower. As if he, too, wanted to sear every touch, every taste, into his memory to relive again and again. Perhaps he did. Perhaps this moment seemed just as tender, just as fleeting, just as vital for him as it did her. He had been a hunter for centuries. Would no doubt continue to be. To him, honor meant upholding the values of his clan. For her, protecting her mother. Both of them put their respective families above all else. Conflicting goals, but shared ideals.

Cain pulled her to her feet, seated himself at the edge of the mattress, and nestled her between his thighs. He seemed content to spend hours thusly, hand in hand, his unreadable gaze never wavering from hers.

Ellie was having none of it.

With a raised brow, she tugged her hands from his. Slowly, she crisscrossed her arms behind her back, conscious of how the action lifted the swell of her breasts very nearly to his parted lips. Almost, but not quite. His gaze dipped. Although she doubted a full-blooded vampire had cause for breathing, Ellie could have sworn she heard a quick intake of breath.

She tugged loose the laces holding her gown together. The sleeves correspondingly relaxed, exposing first one shoulder, then the other. With nothing left to hold it in place, the lace fichu tumbled from her bodice. The triangle of lace slid across one of Cain’s parted thighs. He flinched as if the weightless scrap scalded his flesh through his calfskin breeches. His eyes closed as if he were willing himself to withstand pain caused by a wisp of material that had once rested across her breasts and against her nipples.

He opened his eyes. He was a man tortured. Intoxicated. Powerless.

Ellie returned her hands to her sides and brushed her fingertips across his leg where the fichu had fallen. Her shift and her corset supported her bosom, but did not cover it. Her nipples puckered deliciously beneath the heat of his gaze.

He licked his lips. Slowly, teasingly, as if what he desired most of all was to fasten his mouth upon her breast and suckle.

Ellie could hardly breathe for wanting him to hurry up and do so. She eased forward, inclining so slowly as for the motion to be nearly undetectable, were it not for her breasts’ trajectory ever nearer to his face.

He was definitely breathing. Hard.

Her right nipple grazed the hollow of his cheek. The side of his mouth. The firm contours of his lower lip. Her insides clenched in pleasure, pitching her forward, sending her trembling breast directly into his waiting mouth.

He laved the nipple once, twice, then began to suckle. He tugged the sleeves from her arms, shoved her gown to her hips, to the floor. His hands slid from the backs of her knees to the backs of her thighs, simultaneously lifting her shift and guiding her forward so that she straddled his hips, the hard length of his encaged manhood pressing against the moist surface of her bare—

“Ellie.” His eyes hot on hers, he lifted his mouth from her breast ever so slowly, dragging her nipple along his tongue and across his lower lip to glisten wetly before his parted mouth. “Are you certain you want to—”

Her hands were at his shoulders before she consciously gave them the order to do so, shoving him backward onto the bed. She covered his mouth with hers, stopping his questions with her teeth, with her tongue. She closed her fists over his shirt, rending the fine linen as she exposed his chest to her wanton fingers, to the sensitive nubs of her breasts as she pressed them against him.

His hands fastened about her waist, rocking her hips, slowly grinding her against him until she caught the rhythm with a gasp of ignited desire. Without breaking rhythm, without tearing his mouth from hers, he slid his hands up her spine to her corset. One by one, he loosened the ribbon from the hooks, until the whalebone prison fell away, and with it, what was left of her chemise.

One hand pressed to the base of her spine to hold her in place. He leaned up from the bed just enough to allow her to whip free his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirtsleeves, until nothing was left but his boots and his breeches.

She slid down his body until she knelt on the floor before him. She tugged free one boot, then the other. Her deliberate slowness in doing so must have exhausted the last of his preternatural patience, for he had his fall unbuttoned and his breeches discarded before she had even taken a breath.

He pulled her up, gently, sweetly. Holding her close, he rolled so that she was no longer atop him. He had one arm propped on either side of her ribs, and the naked length of him was hot against her belly. She was now the prisoner and he the captor. But the look on his face indicated she still very much held all the power.

“Kiss my breast,” she whispered, arching toward his mouth. “Touch me as I long to touch you.”

“With pleasure.”

He bent his head to her breast. The knuckles of one hand brushed against the plump curve, then slid to her side, her hip, the inside of her thigh. Once again, her insides clenched with need as he stroked closer and closer to her core, never quite touching the center where she ached for him.

His other hand left her cheek. He splayed both across her thighs, as if preparing to force them apart. No need. Ellie was beyond ready. If he didn’t give them both release soon, she was going to scream.

He trapped her nipple with his teeth, biting lightly. Ellie’s head jerked upright as she gasped, unsure whether she should push his head away or beg him to do it again.

As if reading her mind, he performed the same sweet torture on the other breast, suckling the nipple to diamond hardness and scraping ever so gently with his teeth as he pulled his mouth away. She nearly flew off the bed.

His hips rising, he bent lower and lower, pressing a trail of hot, slow kisses from the valley between her breasts to the sensitive skin just beneath. He continued lower, along her stomach, over to the swell of her hip, down the impossibly tense muscle of her thighs.

He began to lick. First the quivering flesh of her inner thigh, then just a little higher, and a little higher still, until finally, finally, his tongue reached where his fingers had not.

Her hands shot out to grab fistfuls of his hair, holding him in place. His tongue drew endless lazy circles, as if he had all the time in the world to torture her until she fractured from the inside out. She slid one hand from his hair, gliding her palm up her stomach to hover just above her breast, as if wanting to touch it, to touch herself, but daring not. Her nipple tightened, and the aching tip brushed against the edge of her palm.

As if he sensed what she was doing and sought to tempt her even more, Cain dragged his thumb over her wet core, circling, pressing, until the pad slipped within her as his mouth and tongue returned their attentions to her nub.

Ellie cried out, arching into his face, into his finger, her head tossed backward as her hands found her breasts, rolled her nipples beneath her fingers as she writhed against the climbing pressure in her core.

“C-Cain.” The word came out an incomprehensible moan. “I—”

Then his mouth was on hers, drinking every gasp as his shaft filled her. Her fingernails dug into his back as she lifted her legs higher, wrapped him tighter, forced him deeper, faster, faster.

He ducked his head to her shoulder and pressed his open mouth to her skin. As the first contraction of her climax hit, she lifted her head until his shoulder was close enough to taste. With the tip of her tongue, she traced the hard, salty curve. Her inner muscles squeezed tighter with every thrust.

As he gave a shudder indicating his own imminent surrender, the pressure of his kiss increased against her skin. She kissed his neck, his chest, ran her tongue along the bare strength of his shoulder. Their bodies joined faster. He moaned against her skin as another shudder wracked his body. Her release was instantaneous. Twin points painlessly punctured her skin, doubling her pleasure.

Instinctively, she bit down and did the same.

Chapter Eleven

“Liar,” Cain choked out, retracting both fangs and shaft from the woman writhing deliciously beneath him as soon as his passion-drunk brain registered the twin points piercing the sensitive skin of his shoulder in exactly the same way his own fangs had fastened upon hers.

He was furious. At her, for having deceived him. At himself, for having let down his guard. At fate, for having gifted him the greatest pleasure of his life with a woman he couldn’t help but love and want to protect—only for every facet to have been a lie. She was no innocent human girl in want of a warrior’s compassion or protection. She wasn’t innocent—or human—at all.

Had she known who and what he was from the beginning? Been mocking him, managing him, from the first step of their dance?

Cain flung himself from the warmth of her naked body and off the bed. His every limb trembled in rage. His face twisting, he backed steadily away, even as Ellie’s arms reached out to him.

A puzzled frown marred the contentedness of Ellie’s expression. A soft, fang-tipped smile marred the humanity of her face. “What is it?”

He turned his head. Despite his fury at having been cozened, despite his self-disgust at having been too distracted to discern the truth on his own, he longed to lick the red smear from her lips while taking her again and again and again. Ignoring the yearning of his traitorous body, Cain refocused on the inescapable evidence before him: The innocent human was actually a vampire.

“Don’t even try to play the ingénue,” he growled. “Not with my blood still fresh upon your tongue.”

Guilt flashed across Ellie’s face before she dropped her gaze. “I—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His hands curled into fists at his sides. He had never felt so foolish, so exposed. So vengeful.

Ellie’s glare was defiant. “Why do you suppose?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said as he fastened a button. “Because you’re a duplicitous manipulator?”

She shot upright. “That’s rich, when you’re the specter of death come to hunt us and take us captive!”

He crossed his arms and gave her a look powerful enough to send warriors scurrying for cover. She didn’t even change expression.

“Judge me for honoring my blood-sworn duty,” he said at last. “But I never lied to you about who or what I was.”

“I never said I wasn’t a vampire,” she mumbled halfheartedly, then glanced away as if no longer able to meet his gaze.

He didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. “Let’s not prevaricate, shall we? I think we’re a bit beyond that stage.”

Rather than reply, Ellie slid off the bed and to her feet. She snatched up her discarded gown as if she could hide behind the rumpled silk. She would quickly learn there was nowhere to hide. No matter how furious she made him, he would never let her go.

“How did you manage to conceal the truth?” he asked at last. “You seem—seemed—so convincingly human.”

“I am human,” she insisted, tugging at her laces. “Sort of.”

Cain couldn’t believe his ears. “You are a vampire!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” she burst out, staring up at him beseechingly.

“I don’t know,” he said sarcastically. “Perchance the fangs and the bloodlust might have been clues?”

Ellie backed into the bedside table. “That just started yesterday.”

“Yester—” Cain stared at her in disbelief. “How old are you? Truly?”

Her lower lip wobbled. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

She lifted a shoulder as if this were a mundane detail only a pedant would concern himself with, but her eyes shone as if battling tears. “Mother . . . Mother says I was born sometime last century.”

“Sometime last . . .” Cain gaped at her. “Are you saying Aggie Munro is your birth mother?”

Ellie’s chin rose. “I’ve never said otherwise.”

“You’ve never said anything, confound it!” He tried to reconcile what he thought he knew with what he saw before him. “But if that’s true, your father . . .”

“Was human.” She ran a finger over the marble bust of one of the Breckenridge ancestors. “I would appear to be half-blood.”

He rocked backward as if gut-punched. No wonder she’d smelled human, sounded human, acted human. That side of her heritage would always be part of her. As would that of vampire. It was amazing. She was amazing.

“Mixed-blood offspring,” Cain breathed, unable to fathom being in the presence of something so rare as to be legendary, yet unable to dispute the truth of it. If the Elders had commanded Aggie’s capture for having broken a political betrothal, Cain could scarcely fathom their reaction once they discovered the result of her forbidden liaison with a human.

He hurried forward, reaching out for her in his excitement. “When the Elders find out—”

She moved so quickly, he didn’t even have a chance to process the trajectory of the marble bust slamming into his head.

Blackness.

Chapter Twelve

“Mama!”

Ellie crashed through the guest chamber door and skidded to a stop in front of her mother, who had apparently been standing within arm’s reach of the threshold, awaiting her daughter’s return. If Mama were nervous now, her panic would double once she learned that a very large, very determined, very angry vampire warrior would be bursting into the room at any moment to carry them off to a Scottish dungeon. He’d gone down when she’d brained him with the marble bust, certainly, but how long could one expect someone like Cain to stay down? Minutes? Seconds? He was most likely already after them—and this time, there would be no getting away.

Ellie grabbed her mother’s hand. “We have to go. Now.”

Forehead wrinkling, Mama squinted at her as if her daughter had grown horns as well as fangs over the past few hours.

“He’s coming,” Ellie explained impatiently. “Mártainn Macane is—”

But Mama was already on the move, galvanized from the first syllable. “Grab your pelisse. I’ll get the jewels.”

Nodding, Ellie turned toward her bedchamber. “Our trunk—”

“—will stay here,” Mama interrupted. “If Mac Eoin knows, then we have no time.”

Well, he definitely knew. The lovemaking had been heavenly—until the end, when it had turned hellish. Ellie hated to leave without trying to explain, without telling him that for her, at least, the lovemaking had not been in body alone. She would never surrender her freedom, though he had already stolen her heart. She’d planned to confess, to compromise, to find a solution to everything.... But as soon as he’d spoken the word “Elders,” she had known there was no changing Cain’s mind. There had been no choice. Just as now, they had no choice but to run.

In the scant seconds it took Ellie to sprint to the wardrobe and shrug on her pelisse, her mother was already at the door, a leather satchel clutched to her breast amid the folds of her cloak.

“Swiftly.” Mama led the way through what appeared to be servant corridors. “We cannot call attention to ourselves by ringing for our carriage at this hour.”

They arrived at an unmarked door at the far side of the manor, which opened toward the mews. Shivering against the wicked night wind, they raced across the lawn to the stables. Once inside, Mama Compelled the sleepy stable hands to fetch their horses as quickly as possible.

When Ellie was younger, she’d thought their well-worn curricle a foolhardy expenditure for a twosome as poor as they. Now that she knew exactly why they ran, she had a new appreciation for the high speeds possible in the small, light chaise, as well as the wisdom behind owning a carriage that did not require liverymen or a driver.

In short order, Ellie and her mother were settled on the perch, the reins in Ellie’s capable hands. With a flick of her wrist, they were off.

The wind was bitterly cold and razor sharp against their cheeks as the curricle sped recklessly into the night, but Ellie barely registered the chapping of her cheeks or the chafing of the leather straps wound about her bare hands. She’d forgotten her gloves. She’d lost her marbles. And now that the initial panic had begun to fade, a sharp twist of guilt chilled her flesh far more effectively than the winter wind.

She’d wounded Cain and left.

She hadn’t checked his pulse (presuming he had one) or the blood seeping from his temple, or felt along his scalp to see if she’d shattered his skull. She’d simply dropped the red-stained bust where she’d stood and ran.

What if he was dead? What if she’d killed him? Could one even kill a vampire?

He was big and strong and a seasoned warrior, but the mere existence of his clan’s death decree meant that none of them were truly immortal. Could a vampire live through a cracked skull? Could he heal without help? Without blood? Without her?

Mama snapped to attention as if she’d been goosed. She grabbed Ellie’s leg. “Faster!”

Ellie cracked the whip without question. Seeing the look of pure terror on her mother’s face was somehow the most frightening sight of all.

“What is it?” she finally asked, her voice hoarse above the dust kicked up by the horses.

“Hoofbeats,” Mama whispered, her ashen face even paler than usual. She gripped the edge of the carriage and bent to peer around the side. With a gasp, she flung herself back inside, slamming the back of her head against the rear panel. “It’s him.”

Ellie was so startled, she nearly dropped the reins. “It is?”

“Halt!” came the familiar voice from just behind the carriage.

Fear at what he might do and foolish, unadulterated joy at Cain’s continued well-being collided in Ellie’s midsection. She flicked the whip without a conscious decision to spur the horses, as if she were an automaton instructed to do so.

Cain was here. Cain was alive. And lovesick or not, she could not allow her mother to be captured.

She leaned forward, urging the geldings faster and faster. But horses pulling a carriage could never match the speed of a single horse and rider.

Bringing his mount abreast of the carriage, Cain leaped from his saddle to their curricle, landing hard on the squab beside Ellie.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening,” she echoed automatically, then slammed her elbow into his ribs. “Get out!”

He smiled. “No.”

Mother closed her eyes and groaned as if suddenly motion sick.

Ellie’s own nerves grew more and more tense as Cain’s hulking presence continued to tower beside her without further comment or any attempt to wrest the ribbons from her trembling hands.

When she could stand it no longer, Ellie blurted, “What the devil are you about?”

“I thought it obvious.” He arranged himself more comfortably. “I’m coming with you.”

She tightened her grip on the reins with one hand and sent the other arm flying protectively across her mother. “We are not going meekly to some archaic punishment.”

“I should hope not.”

She sent him a ferocious scowl. “Nor shall we succumb to being imprisoned against our will.”

“Very well.”

Ellie regarded him uncertainly. “Nor will we return to Scotland, now or ever, until and unless all threats have been revoked.”

He lifted a shoulder as if none of those possibilities caused the slightest concern, leaned his head back against the panel, and peacefully closed his eyes. “As you wish.”

Just as Ellie found herself utterly and maddeningly at a complete loss for words, Mama pushed away Ellie’s protective arm, leaned forward to poke Cain in the leg, and demanded, “What is the meaning of this, Mac Eoin?”

“It means,” he responded without opening his eyes, “I’m in love with your daughter.”

“What?” Ellie choked out, at the same moment her mother exclaimed, “What?”

After a long moment, Cain gave a short nod, as if responding to some argument raging deep within himself instead of at the two women gawping openmouthed alongside him. He squared his shoulders, straightened, and turned to face Ellie’s mother.

“As I understand, it is human tradition to request permission to wed from the bride’s father.”

Ellie blinked at him stupidly.

“As he is no longer present,” Cain continued without taking his focus from her mother, “it is my fervent hope that her mother will acquiesce. Agnes Munro, will you grant me the honor of marrying your daughter, Elspeth Ramsay?”

“What?” Mama repeated blankly, the word barely audible above the hoofbeats and howling wind.

Ellie let the reins slacken as she turned to face Cain dead-on. “Is this a jest?”

“Not in the slightest,” he answered simply. When the corner of his mouth lifted in an uncertain smile, there was no doubting the sincerity of his words.

A vicious, dangerous, swirl of hope began to unfurl in Ellie’s heart. “But you were so angry—”

“I was startled.” He gently touched his knuckles against the curve of her cheek. “You breathe, Ellie. Your heart beats. Your human blood rushes in your veins. And you bit me.”

Mama clutched at her throat. “Elspeth!”

“It was an accident,” Ellie mumbled guiltily.

“It was instinct,” Cain corrected, “and absolutely incredible. I hope you do it again.”

“But you said you would tell the Elders—”

“—that our race may not be on the verge of extinction after all,” he said with a self-chastising shake of the head. “I should have made that clearer. You are a miracle, Ellie. Very few of our kind still survive. A handful in Pitreavie Castle, a dozen or so in Foulis . . .”

Mama gasped. “But you said it burnt down!”

Cain grinned at her. “I lied.”

“You what?” Mother’s voice rose to a shriek powerful enough to rival the wind. “Do you have any idea how much sorrow—”

“Don’t pretend you’ve never told a falsehood, Aggie.” Cain’s voice was serious, his gaze hard. “I had to know the truth.”

Ellie hesitantly touched her fingertips to the back of his hand. “And now that you do?”

“As far as I’m concerned, the terms of an honorable hunt are these: Return with the prey, or not at all.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a warm kiss against the back of her fingers. “If it means losing you, then I choose not at all.”

Ellie pulled her hand away from Cain’s mouth in order to press her lips to his. He responded by pulling her into his lap and sinking his fingers into her hair to deepen the kiss. Ellie didn’t pull away until her fogged brain finally realized that the reins had fallen from her grip and the carriage had meandered to a complete stop.

And that she was kissing a vampire warrior in full view of her mother.

Still human enough to be incapable of fighting the blush flaming across her cheeks, Ellie slid off Cain’s lap to her own seat. She retrieved the fallen ribbons, cleared her throat, and stared fixedly ahead so as not to witness whatever expression her mother currently wore.

Cain brushed her ear softly with the pad of his thumb and nuzzled a kiss across her forehead. He settled his arm about Ellie’s shoulders, then lifted his head to meet her mother’s gaze.

“What do you say, Lady Munro? May I wed your daughter?”

Ellie’s entire body tensed to the point of shattering as her mother took her precious time deciding her response.

“You may court her,” Mama said at last, unable to keep a mischievous chuckle from her voice. “Whether she’ll wed you is up to her.”

Cain smiled down at Ellie, his gaze shining with hope and vulnerability. “I love you, Elspeth Ramsay. I would like to spend the rest of infinity at your side. Will you be mine?”

With love and joy overflowing her heart, Ellie returned his gaze with a saucy look. “Do you think me such easy prey as that?” she said with mock affront. “You may spend the rest of infinity trying to catch me, hunter.”

“No,” he corrected softly, “it is you who have caught me.”

She gazed up at him with a smile. “I love you, too.”

This time when he reached for her, she melted blissfully into his arms.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

Compilation copyright © 2011 by Kensington Publishing Corporation

“Dark Embrace” copyright © 2011 by Hannah Howell11

“A Knight Beyond Black” copyright © 2011 by Jackie Ivie

“The Guardian” copyright © 2011 by Michele Peach

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3258-8