"Master," she nodded in reply. Clare shrank against her, obviously fearful of the dog. "It's all right, sweeting," the nursemaid soothed. "He seems tame enough."

"Quite tame," Silas agreed. "I think I can promise you, Lady Clare. This beast will never harm you."

The child edged closer, one hand held out before her as Siobhan had shown her to do. "He's pretty," she ventured. "Magnificent," Silas said, smiling at Emma and trying not to hold his breath. The dog nudged Clare's hand, and she gasped, but she did not draw back.

"He likes me," she said with a smile.

"He certainly seems to," Emma agreed.

"I am sure of it," Silas said. For the first time since finding him that morning, the scholar began to have some sense of the agony his young friend must be suffering. He loved his child above all else in the world; how horrible it must be to be so near to her and unable to touch her or protect her.

"h.e.l.lo, doggie," Clare said softly, reaching out to barely stroke the golden fur on the animal's neck. "h.e.l.lo." She took a step closer as Tristan sat back on his haunches. "So soft." She knelt beside him and pressed her cheek against his neck, breathing deeply. "He smells like Papa."

"I hardly think so," Emma laughed. "Come, my lady. We are meant to hurry, remember?"

"Where are the two of you headed, mistress?" Silas asked, prolonging the moment as best he could.

"Not far," Emma answered. "My little lady has been shut up all day."

"I see." Silas suddenly remembered; Lebuin had kept the child locked up with Siobhan. But if Tristan truly meant to do as he said, the last place his daughter should be just now was in the tower. Hidden in the kennels, Tristan had explained how he had become the creature he was, this vampire, and Silas had told him all that had pa.s.sed while he was gone, how Sean Lebuin had insisted the castle be finished, and of his alliance with this mysterious Baron of Callard. "Lebuin makes fine speeches and can be clever, moment to moment, but he seems to have no skill for planning on his own," he had explained. "The strategist is Siobhan."

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks," Tristan had scoffed with a laugh, scratching his hound between the ears.

"Not so, my lord," Silas had warned him. "She told me herself, it was she who arranged for the murder of my masons-she all but boasted of it. The peasants here look to her to protect them, not Sean." Tristan's expression of fury had been terrible to behold.

"In faith, I doubt not it was she who convinced them to betray you."

"My darling wife." Seeing him smile as he said it, Silas could well have called him demon. And now he had come to take revenge.

"Emma, will you do me a kindness?" he said now.

"Of course, master." She laid a hand on Clare's golden head, but she made no effort to pull her away from the dog.

"I have left some papers in my room in the manor house," he said, improvising. "But I mean to pa.s.s the night here in the hall-"

"Aye, master, you must," she said quickly "It isn't safe-" She broke off, glancing at the child. "I will fetch your papers."

"Thank you, mistress." He racked his brain for a moment. "They are...they are on my desk, of course. A bundle of scrolls-just bring whatever you find."

"I will." She held out her hand, and Clare reluctantly took it, rising to her feet. "Where will I find you?"

"I will be waiting in the hall." The dog that was his lord nuzzled the child's ear one last time, making her giggle. "Thank you, Emma."

"Not at all, Master Silas." With a final smile, she pressed the little one's hand between her own. "Come along, my lady."

Silas watched them go, disappearing through the archway that led to the hall. When he turned, Tristan stood beside him as a man.

"G.o.d's light," he muttered, catching his breath. "Forgive me, Silas." He laid a trembling hand on the older man's shoulder, steadying himself as much as Silas. "Thank you...I think I can manage from here."

"Are you certain?" Silas said, glancing fretfully up and down the curving staircase. "There will be guards-"

Tristan smiled. "Not to worry," he promised. "Go and wait for Emma in the hall."

As soon as Emma and the little one were gone, Siobhan bolted the door from the inside and fastened the shutters to the room's only window. She stripped off her kirtle and put on her breeches and boots with her underblouse, gathering her hair into a thong at the nape of her neck.

Someone was coming up the hall, muttering under his breath. She tucked the sword under the rug on the bed. "Aye, anon!" she called as someone pounded on the door. "Who comes?"

"It's me, my lady," a rough voice answered-one of the servants. "Joseph. I have brought your wood."

She unbolted the door and opened it. "Bring it in," she said, nodding again to her guard. "Just put it by the hearth."

The servant gave her costume a questioning glance. "Shall I make up the fire for you?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I...I have put on more clothes. My chill has pa.s.sed."

He definitely thought she had lost her mind. "As you will, my lady," he said with a barely m.u.f.fled sigh, heading for the door again with his arms still full.

"But leave the wood!" she ordered. "I might need it later-the nights are cold." In midsummer, she silently added, feeling a perfect fool.

He just stared at her for a moment with a half-smile on his face as if he thought she might be joking. "Of course," he said at last.

He laid the wood on the hearth, his eyes never leaving her face. "Sleep well, my lady."

"Thank you," she nodded. "I shall try." She smiled at him as pleasantly as she could manage as he left, then bolted the door behind him.

None of the wood was quite what she wanted as a stake-the logs were too thick, and the kindling was too small. She picked up the most likely candidate and pretended to strike an imaginary foe, trying to imagine driving it into the heart of a demon vampire.

Into Tristan's heart, she corrected herself, shivering in horror at the thought. "G.o.d save me," she said softly. "Give me strength to do it, for I swear I cannot."

More footsteps were coming up the corridor-could Emma and Clare be back so soon? She tucked the stake into her belt behind her back like she might hide a dagger and turned to face the door.

She heard the guard cry out sharply for barely a moment, then a thud against the door that shook it in its frame. "Owen?" she said, calling the guard by name. "Joseph? Is that you?"

For a long moment, she heard nothing, then the sound of something heavy sliding down the door. She heard the outside bolt slide back. "Who is there?" she demanded, her heart beginning to pound so hard it ached. The handle turned, but her bolt was still fastened, a heavy bolt of iron. "Tristan?" I will come again, he had promised. You need not seek me out.

Wait! she wanted to cry out, I am not ready! She was meant to destroy him; he had killed two of their men, killed Sam after he had promised he would not. In truth, he had killed young Owen just that very moment. If she couldn't stop him, drive the stake through his heart, strike his head from his shoulders, he would murder Sean and everyone else she held dear.

s.p.a.ceBut he was her husband. It had begun as a joke, a taunt against her enemy, but somehow the vows they had taken had become the truth. How could she kill the man she had known the night before? He had bewitched her, but all that she had done, she had wanted. She wanted him, wanted to touch him, to be his just as he demanded. She was a woman, weak and foolish, just as she had always feared. "Go away," she ordered, a childish defense. "I will not let you in." The handle turned again, slowly, and the door rattled in its frame. "I said go away!" Please, Tristan, she begged inside her head. Please, don't make me kill you.

A thin, gray tendril of smoke curled up from the crack under the door. She backed away, watching as it rose and thickened, and a soft, pleasant scent filled the room, like new-mown hay at twilight, wet with dew. She reached behind her for the bed, her fingers seeking out the sword hidden under the rug, but she was clumsy and distracted, hypnotized by the mist as it writhed and turned solid. In a few dizzy moments, the sword was forgotten as her demon lover stood before her.

"You cannot banish me, Siobhan," he said, coming closer, his handsome face distorted with fury. "This is my castle." She moved as if to run, and he caught her by the shoulders. "You are my wife."

"How can a dead man have a wife?" she scoffed, taunting him as always, but this time he shook her, making her cry out.

"Tell me the truth," he demanded, not in the seductive demon's purr that had entranced her so completely the night before but in the rough, heartfelt voice of a righteous man betrayed. "Tell me you murdered the men who were building this castle, innocent workers who never wronged you or anyone else."

"What?" The night before, he had smiled at her, teased her, made love to her-why was he so angry now? "No," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't...not really. I didn't think-"

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" he said, mocking her.

"It was months ago," she protested. "I told Sam we would have an easier time making you go back to France if your castle could not be completed, and he..." Her voice trailed off as she looked up at him. "You killed him."

The accusation in her eyes was more than Tristan could bear-how dare she accuse him? Who in heaven's name was Sam? "You ordered those men killed," he said, aghast.

"I never ordered anything," she insisted. "I have no power to give orders-do you not see where I am now, a prisoner?" She couldn't think, not with him glaring at her so. Emma and Clare would be back any moment; she had to act quickly. But what was she going to do? "I did not mourn those men, but I did not kill them. I would have, but-Tristan, why are you surprised? You knew what I was; I never pretended-"

"Aye, lady, I knew," he said with a bitter laugh. "I knew the first moment I saw you, unnatural little beast, firing arrows at my men." A rage very different from the need for revenge he had felt on his way home was making him dizzy. "I should have killed you-"

"You tried, but you missed," she retorted.

"Then using an innocent child as a hostage," he went on, his voice thick with disgust. "Tell me, Siobhan-does Clare remember how you meant to cut her throat?"

"I would never have done it," she said angrily, confessing the truth without thinking. "I prayed to G.o.d you would not call my bluff-"

"As if I would have risked my child-"

"How was I to know that?" she demanded. "I didn't know you! You were a stranger, this Norman who was making slaves of my father's people-you had just killed my brother's best friend-"

"Who was trying to kill me, if I recall aright," he said sarcastically. "You meant to kill Sean, and I couldn't..." An aching lump rose in her throat, all the grief she had been holding back so long, she barely thought about it anymore. She hardly knew what she was saying or even thinking; the words just came pouring out. "I couldn't let you kill him, Tristan; I can't...he's all I have left, and he loves me." Tears were blinding her; his chest as he held her by the shoulders was a blur before her eyes, and if he hadn't been holding her, she might have crumpled to the floor. "They killed Papa like a dog, cut his head off right in front of our house with me and Mama watching," she said, sobbing like the weakling girl she had sworn she would never be again. "Norman soldiers...we were n.o.bles; the king had made Papa a knight. Sean was a knight..." Her vampire husband's face had changed; she saw pity in his warm green eyes, and pain twisted her heart like a fist.

"They raped my mother, Tristan, all of them, over and over, because she was a woman, and she couldn't even fight. I couldn't fight..." She thought of the sword she had hidden behind her, found on that terrible night. "I watched them," she told him, cold to the marrow of her bones. "I ran away..." She bent her head and cried as he drew her against him.

"Hush now," he murmured, pressing her close. He barely recognized his own voice, could hardly believe the man comforting her was himself. He had never done such a thing in his life except with Clare, his own perfect, innocent child. Siobhan was none of those things-she was not perfect; she was hardly innocent; and she was a woman grown, old enough and strong enough to shoulder her own burdens, certainly. But like Clare, she was his, and he could not bear to see her pain. "Of course you ran away." He kissed her hair. "They would have murdered you as well, or worse."

"Yes," she admitted through a hiccup, clutching his tunic in her fists. She wanted so much to melt against him, to let him comfort her. He was so strong, stronger than any man she had ever known, and he held her safe. A moment before, he had wanted to murder her, but the sight of her tears made him tender-what manner of madness was that?

"Don't cry," he said gruffly, the lion's growl. In his mind, he could see her, a terrified child, running for her life from the men who had slaughtered her family and destroyed her home. 'Twas no great wonder she hated all Normans, Tristan himself included. "It's over now," he promised.

No, she thought. It is not. Not nearly. But looking up at him, she couldn't seem to say it. She wanted to tell him the rest, that she had killed a man that night, her first kill ever, that every night since she had seen the dead man's face haunting her dreams. She wanted to tell him she knew what he was, that she was more afraid of him than she had ever been of anything in her life. She needed to say it not to hurt him, but to make him comfort her, make him promise he would never hurt her, that she need not be afraid. But meeting his eyes with her own, she could not make the words come out. "Tristan," she whispered, sick at heart. The corner of his mouth quirked up, almost a smile, and she kissed him, unable to do anything else.

He gathered her closer, pa.s.sion flaring between them in an instant. She wrapped her arms around his neck, crushing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest as she reached up for him, desperate to be closer still. He lifted her off of her feet, her legs entwined around his hips. "I should murder you," he murmured, breaking the kiss for barely a moment before kissing her again. "My love..."

"My love," she echoed, feeding on his mouth. "I love-"

"Tristan!" Silas was coming through the door, obviously out of breath. "Hurry-Lebuin!"

"Siobhan!" Sean's voice shouted, his footfalls heavy coming up the hall, followed by others. "Sweet Christ...Owen? Owen!"

Then they were running.

Tristan put Siobhan behind him, keeping a grip on her wrist. He turned to the door just as Lebuin burst in.

"Siobhan!" he was shouting, but the name died on his tongue, his mouth falling open in shock. His face went white, and his eyes went wide.

"Did your sister not tell you I would come?" Tristan demanded with a smile, the brigand's fear all that he ever could have wished.

Still holding Siobhan by the wrist, he advanced, fangs bared, ready to strike.

A blade of fire pierced his flesh, so unexpected he gasped. Looking down, he saw a sword point protruding from his chest for a moment before it was withdrawn, and pain like he had felt in the moment he was dying seemed to rip him apart. Turning in horror, he saw Siobhan holding the sword. Tears streaming down her face, she struck again, slashing at his throat as if she meant to behead him. He recoiled, knocking the blade aside, but not before it sliced through his skin, pouring blood from his throat. He grabbed for her, twisting the sword from her grip, but the wounds she had made were not healing. He was weakening. "No," he protested, touching her cheek, and her lip trembled as she reached behind her, drawing a stake of wood.

"Kill him!" Sean ordered, rushing forward, and Tristan turned, knocking him aside like he might have been a child. With a roar at the others, he lunged for the window, ripping the shutter from the frame.

"Tristan!" Siobhan screamed, rushing forward as he jumped. Her hands made fists on empty air as Silas caught her from behind.

"No!" The vampire fell through the darkness, his white tunic like a ghost as it rippled in the moonlight until he crashed at last and disappeared into the brush at the foot of the ravine. "Oh, dear G.o.d..." She turned, tearing away from Silas. Sean reached for her, and she grabbed up the sword, still red with Tristan's blood. "Stay back!" Pushing past him and his men, she sprinted for the stairs.

"My lady!" Michael called as she ran across the hall. "A message-!" But she barely heard him, plunging out the door.

"Tristan!" She half-ran, half-slid down the steep, sandy bank. This was the site of her first kill, the place where she had found her sword. But all she could think about was finding Tristan; she did not even care what she would do when he was found or what he would most surely do to her. "Tristan!" Some of the th.o.r.n.y hedges were broken and crushed, and crawling underneath the thicket she could feel blood on the ground. But the vampire was gone.

In canine form, Tristan swam across the moat, struggling to keep his head above the surface. The bones he had broken in his fall had healed at once, but the wounds Siobhan had made still bled and burned; he was feeling weaker by the moment. Siobhan...

how could she betray him now, turn from his kiss to his murder in a moment? The thought made him feel worse, so faint and sick, he could barely climb the bank when he reached it. He half-ran, half-staggered to the cover of the forest, collapsing in a thicket.

Why was he not healing? Even h.e.l.l itself had turned on him, it seemed.

By force of will alone, he transformed into a man and made himself rise to his feet. He whistled for Daimon, hoping against hope that the horse had not been discovered or wandered away after being left alone so long. After a moment, a great white shadow appeared in the trees, and he almost wept with relief. "Come," he ordered, and Daimon came closer, waiting patiently as he climbed into the saddle, pain making him see stars. "Good lad," he muttered, patting the horse's neck. Wrapping the reins around his fist, he let himself slump forward, trusting Daimon to find his way back to their shelter.

When Orlando heard hoofbeats, he a.s.sumed Simon had returned. He left the shelter, prepared to let fly with a lecture to frighten the birds from their nests. But the horse was white, and the rider looked barely able to sit up. "Tristan!" He rushed forward as quickly as his legs would carry him, reaching the horse just as it stopped. "What on earth...?"

Tristan thought he was starting to improve. He didn't seem to be bleeding anymore. But the burning pain had turned cold, as if he were freezing from the inside out. "Well met, wizard," he muttered, the most he could manage to get out before tumbling unconscious to the ground.

CHAPTER 12

Simon returned just before dawn, fully expecting Orlando to meet and scold him. When the wizard did not, he knew something was wrong.

"What happened to him?" he asked, coming into the shelter and seeing Tristan laid out on the floor.

"So now you turn up," Orlando said sarcastically, barely glancing up from rummaging through his pack. "I had to drag him in here by his feet. If he hadn't been in such sorry shape, he would have been mightily embarra.s.sed."

"Why couldn't he walk on his own?" He crouched beside the pallet. Orlando had stripped off Tristan's tunic and cleaned his s.p.a.cewounds, but both were still livid and open. If Simon hadn't known better, he would have sworn he was dead. "What could do this to a vampire?"