"You are beautiful." He held her hand against his cheek and kissed it. "Callard will protect you until I can return."

"I will protect myself." She moved into his arms and hugged him tight. How will he ever return? she thought, holding on with all her might. Even if she did as she boasted she could, what then? Did she mean to play the Norman lord's widow forever? Not likely, since her husband was technically alive, a vampire, sworn to vengeance-sworn to murder her, in fact. She stepped back and looked up at her brother for what felt like the last time. "You must not fret for me," she told him with a smile. At least Sean would be safe.

"I will come back for you-for all of you," he promised, kissing her on either cheek. "Our quest is not yet done."

Tristan stood in the shelter of the trees and watched the caravan pa.s.s by, Daimon's lead in his hand, Simon and Orlando on their mounts beside him. Henry had sent his knights back home; the French campaign was apparently done. He watched the men he had led into battle ride by him, his feelings strangely muddled. They were his sworn retainers, most of them his friends. He could call each one of them by name, from Sir William on his snow-white mare to the foot soldier Remus, who had stopped to take a p.i.s.s in the gra.s.s beside the road and was running to catch up. They would know him as well, would rejoice to see him and serve him happily again. But he felt set apart from them by more than the shadows of the wood. A veil had fallen between him and these living men he loved. He was no longer the man who had commanded them. He was a vampire.

Simon leaned down from his horse to put a hand on his shoulder. "Tristan?" he said softly, his brother in cursed blood. "Are you certain?"

Tristan nodded, his jaw clenched tight. His course was set; he could not leave it now. Swinging easily into the saddle, he trotted out onto the road.

"My lord!" Sir William saw him first, and a smile of pure relief broke over his face. "You live!" He leapt down from his horse to kneel before Tristan, then rose to clasp his hand. "May Christ be praised!"

"Amen," Tristan answered with a smaller smile, the word burning his tongue.

"Where is Henry's clerk?" another of the knights, Sir Andrew, demanded, looking back at the caravan behind him. "And where is that d.a.m.ned baron?" "The baron of Callard said he had heard you were murdered," Sir William explained. "He met us on the road with troops of his own, headed for your castle." His face fell as in shame. "Forgive us for believing him, my lord."

Tristan climbed down from his horse to embrace him. "I forgive you nothing, for you have done no wrong," he promised. "I was the victim of treachery, 'tis true." Simon and Orlando emerged from the wood. "But the duke came to my aid."

"The duke?" Sir Andrew echoed. He hastened to bend knee to Simon as well. "Your grace..."

"Simon, the duke of Lyan," Tristan explained. "And this is his wizard, Orlando." The caravan had stopped as shouts carried the news forward, and a crowd was gathering around them. "His healing arts preserved my life."

"But how were you attacked, my lord?" Andrew demanded. "Where is the villain now?"

"I know not," Tristan answered. "But we shall soon find out." A man dressed in a plain brown habit was galloping toward them on a palfrey, followed by an armored knight on an armored stallion. The clerk he recognized as one of Henry's favorites, a sour- faced young scholar named Nicholas who shared the king's love of history and figures. The knight was a stranger...but no. As he dismounted and lifted his visor, Tristan could have sworn he had seen him before.

"My lord DuMaine?" he asked, incredulous. "Verily, can it be you?" He was young, no older than Tristan himself, and he was nearly as handsome as Simon, his features so regular they might have been painted in a book. His armor was beautifully wrought-Italian-made, Tristan thought in pa.s.sing, studying his face. But where had he seen this man before?

"I am Tristan DuMaine," he answered. "But who are you?"

"This is the baron of Callard," Nicholas answered, still sitting on his horse. " 'Twas he who gave us rumor of your death, my lord-if indeed, you are the man you say."

This was the baron? Tristan thought, barely hearing more. This pleasant-faced young fellow was the monster who had so terrified the servant of Gaston? This was the man who had murdered his guard, his mistress, and a coachman all in the same night? It hardly seemed possible. Simon had told him what he had heard from the peasants on the road, and they had agreed that some demon was surely in residence on the baron's lands. But this could not be him.

"Of course he is, idiot," Sir Andrew scolded. "You've seen him yourself a hundred times; surely you must recognize him."

"It has been my misfortune to learn that my eyes and memory cannot always be trusted," the scholar retorted. "The king sent me in search of one man only, a man he loves as friend and kinsman. Why have you ignored your king's correspondence, my lord, if you truly are his cousin?"

"Because I have been injured near to death for this month past," Tristan answered, tearing his gaze from the baron's face. "While riding in this wood, I was set upon by brigands-"

"Lebuin!" Sir William cried, incensed. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"The same," Tristan nodded. "Or so I do believe-in truth, I never saw my attackers. I was left for dead and knew nothing for days. When I awoke, I was with Simon and Orlando, and they have nursed me back to health."

"May heaven bless you, my lords," Callard said, bowing his head to Simon and Orlando. But Tristan could have sworn he saw him smile, a wicked gleam pa.s.sing through his eyes before his face was hidden.

"Indeed," he said. He glanced over at Simon and saw him watching the baron as well, the look in his eyes impossible to read.

"But how is it you were moved to come here, Baron?"

"My lands are close by yours, my lord," Callard said easily. "I heard rumor you had disappeared." Again, his expression was somber, but his wide blue eyes danced with amus.e.m.e.nt. "And other things as well." "No doubt," Simon said, the first time he had spoken. "I hear tell you have troubles of your own, my lord."

"Of course," Nicholas said, smiling for the first time at the lilt in Simon's voice. "Lyan is in Ireland."

"What troubles?" Sir William asked, curious, looking to Callard.

"The duke must have heard of the supposed sickness that struck some of my peasants," Callard answered. The laughter in his eyes was gone, replaced by sadness. Could Gaston's servant have been mistaken? Could the baron be innocent? "But the true culprit has been found, a murderer possessed by demons, or so it seemed to the priest. He has been hanged, and the deaths have stopped." He turned back to Tristan. "Perhaps this lunatic attacked you as well, my lord."

"Perhaps," Tristan said, more curious than ever. Simon seemed to think there was some connection between whatever had attacked the baron's lands and his own great enemy, Kivar. But Tristan was more concerned about the pact this man had apparently made with Lebuin. "But I doubt it. What other rumors did you hear of me, Callard?"

The young baron smiled, apparently unruffled by Tristan's tone. "It might be madness, my lord," he said. "But I heard that you were married."

Tristan returned his smile. "Madness indeed." He turned to Nicholas. "Well, sirrah? Are you convinced I am the man I say?"

"Aye, my lord." The scholar climbed down from his horse to make a deep, elegant bow. "I hope you will forgive me."

"Oh, I dare say he will," Simon said with a grin. "If you escort him to his castle."

Siobhan waited on the wide stone steps of the manor house as the courtyard filled with Normans, every bit of will she could muster focused on standing still. I am not a little girl, she told herself sternly, her heart pounding so hard she thought surely everyone around her must hear it. I am a woman, a warrior, a brigand. I will not be afraid.

Clare stood beside her, and she gave a little dancing hop of excitement. "He is coming," the child confided, putting her hand into Siobhan's.

Before she could answer, a small brown palfrey trotted to the head of the procession, and a small brown clerk climbed down from its back. "And who are you, my lady?" he said, making her a bow.

"Better I should ask that of you, sirrah," she answered, surprised to hear her voice was steady. "You ride beneath the banner of our sovereign king, but I do not know your face."

"I am Master Nicholas," he answered with a small smile that told her she had spoken right. Behind her, she heard Silas let out a relieved little sigh. "I do come on behalf of His Majesty, the king."

"Then you are welcome, Master Nicholas," she said with the graceful nod Silas had taught her. "I am Siobhan, Lady DuMaine."

His eyes widened for a moment, but his smile did not waver. "Then you spoke aright, my lord," he said, looking back at another knight, still mounted behind him. "The baron of Callard told us he had heard tell of your marriage."

"Did he indeed?" The knight raised his visor to show a handsome face. "'Tis fitting, I suppose." She made herself smile for a moment, the best she could manage. "I have heard tell much of him."

The baron smiled as well, swinging down from his horse to make her an elaborate bow. "Then I am blessed, my lady," he said, coming closer. "To be known by such a beauty is a boon indeed."

"I never said I knew you, sir," she answered, offering her hand. "I have only heard gossip." He took her hand and kissed it, and a queer, unpleasant tremor pa.s.sed through her, but she would not let it show on her face. If Sean were right about this man, he might be her last hope. "I have yet to form my own opinion."

The last of the procession was inside, and the gates were being closed and barred again, a sound to make her shiver. "Not to worry, my lady," Callard said as he let her go, and his wide blue eyes were serious behind his easy smile. "I mean you should think well of me."

"Be careful, baron." The voice came from a hooded figure just inside the gates. "The lady's favor is hard won and bought at a terrible price."

Tristan had watched in shock as Siobhan greeted Henry's clerk, hardly believing his eyes. His wicked little demon was transformed to a lady of fashion, every detail perfect from the veil that covered her wild ma.s.s of black hair to the hem of the gown that matched her eyes. Even her manner was perfect, as cold and condescending as that of any highborn b.i.t.c.h at court. She had already marked Callard as her salvation, flirting with him shamelessly, and the poor man was apparently undone. "Trust me," he finished, pushing back his hood. "I know her well."

Siobhan should have been frightened. In truth, no fate could have been worse than this, her vampire husband appearing with a royal Norman army at his back to help him carry out his vengeance. But as soon as she heard his voice, her heart sang out inside her breast, "He lives!" As soon as he revealed his face, she could not help but smile, not the feigned, pretty expression she had practiced with Silas before the mirror but her own true, joyful smile. "Tristan!" Forgetting everything, she ran to him, tearing off her veil and kicking off her slippers as she went.

She stopped just in front of him as he climbed down from his horse, frozen by the fury in his eyes as he looked down on her. The last time they had met, she had tried to destroy him. He had tried to comfort her, had sworn to protect her, and she had repaid him by trying to slash his throat. How could she expect him not to hate her? "My lord," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face. "You have returned."

Tristan shuddered at her touch, his fury dissolving in the face of the hope in her eyes. Looking down on her, he found his reason lost. In spite of everything, she wanted him; she welcomed him, vampire, Norman, and enemy all. "Yes," he nodded, the word catching for a moment in his throat. "I have."

She smiled. "Thank G.o.d," she said, laughing as he caught her in his arms.

"Tristan, I'm so sorry." He kissed her before the words were out, crushing her mouth with his, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, oblivious to anything but him. He lifted her off of her feet, and she laughed, faint with pa.s.sion and relief. "I did not want to hurt you." She kissed his jaw, his nose, his cheek, clumsy with happiness and love like nothing she had ever felt before. "I was so afraid..."

"Hush, love." He kissed her sweetly, drunk on the taste of her tongue. He did not want to hear her explanation, didn't want to think. All he wanted was to revel in her welcome, the warmth of her embrace. As for all the rest, the walls of pain the world had built between them, later would be soon enough to see them. For now, he would make them be gone. "Simon," he said, turning to his vampire brother who still waited, bemused, behind them. "Will you see my castle secured?"

"Oh, aye," Simon answered with a grin. "I can see you've more pressing matters to attend."

"I do indeed." He looked down at his brigand love, still curled against his chest, clinging to him as if for shelter from some dreaded storm. "My love," he repeated, a kiss against her ear. "My sweet Siobhan..." He swept her off her feet into his arms, and she kissed him, her hand against his cheek as he carried her into the manor.

"Aye me," Master Nicholas laughed, pressing a hand to his chest as the happy couple pa.s.sed him by. "I would say Lord DuMaine is quite married indeed."

"Yea, verily," the baron agreed, his charming smile belied by the look of pure calculation in his eyes. "I say they are well matched."

CHAPTER 14

The servants stared in shock as Tristan carried his wife through his own hall, their dead lord returned. One housemaid screamed in terror and fell into a faint. But the vampire himself barely noticed. Let Andrew and Sebastian explain where he had been. Let Simon secure the castle, at least for these few hours-he was a duke and a Crusader; surely he could manage. For now, Tristan would be with Siobhan. He paused at the archway to kiss her again, capturing her mouth with his.

Only one other soul could have distracted him. "Papa!" Clare cried from the doorway, running to catch up. "Papa, wait!"

"Clare," Siobhan said, tugging her kiss away. "Poor baby-Tristan, wait-"

Before the words were out, he had set her on her feet again and knelt to catch his child. "Papa," she wept, running to him.

"Hush, love, all is well," he promised as he hugged her. "Please don't cry."

"My lord Tristan," Silas said, coming to join them, wearing his enigmatic smile. "Welcome home."

Siobhan watched her vampire husband as he kissed his child, her heart aching with love she didn't dare let show. He meant to pretend she was his wife indeed; he had let his knights believe it. The last time they had stood together in this hall, she had forced him to pretend to marry her, the two of them cursing one another with the worst oaths they could make, oaths that had come true.

But now he pretended to love her.

"Yes, my lord," she said, caressing his hair as he knelt beside her with Clare in his arms. "We have missed you." He looked up at her, a question in his eyes. Yes, love, she longed to tell him; it is true. But she could not. They had an audience. She must play her part. What would his true wife say to him, if such a creature could be real? "Where have you been all this time?"

He caught her hand in his. "Sorely wounded, lady." The last time he had been with her, she had tried to kill him with a sword Orlando believed was enchanted. The little wizard said she must know what he was and how to destroy him. "In faith, I am not mended now." What could she be thinking? He could not doubt she wanted him. Devil and brigand she might be, but she could never have hidden her feelings this well, could never have feigned the desire he had tasted in her kiss. But did she want him dead almost as much? He thought of her confession the night before, the heartbreaking pain he had seen in her eyes as she told him of her father's death. Such pain could drive any warrior to evil. And she was a warrior, his love. "But Simon has healed me well enough," he finished. He brushed a kiss across her palm before he stood. "Well enough to come home."

"I told you," Clare said happily, hanging on Siobhan's free hand. "I told you Papa was not dead."

"And I believed you." She smiled down on his child with genuine affection, and a fist of longing clenched around his heart. For a moment he let himself imagine that this play was real, that he was a true man again, and she was his true wife. In his life before, he had known he must marry, but he had never thought that he would love. Love was for squires and poets, half-girlish creatures with nothing else of consequence to do. He could never have dreamed that somewhere in the world there was Siobhan. She cursed him, fought him, challenged him at every turn. Her beauty was a burden to her; her feminine wiles she used as nothing but a joke.

But she bewitched him like no gentle lady ever could have done.

"Siobhan," he said, his voice brusque with the feeling he dared not let her see. "Where is your brother?

Must we come to this so quickly? she thought, meeting his gaze with her own. Couldn't they pretend a little longer? "He is gone, my lord," she answered, only truth.

He brushed her jaw with the back of his hand, searching her eyes for a lie. " 'Tis well," he said at last. "I will not miss him."

Turning away from her, he lifted Clare up in his arms and kissed her. "You, my lady, ought to be in bed." The little girl twisted a lock of his hair around her tiny fist, frowning in protest. "I will come and kiss you before I go to sleep."

"Will you stay now, Papa?" she asked. "Will I see you in the morning?"

Simon's words came back to him. Will you take this child into darkness? he had asked. Will you play lord of the castle as a demon? "You will not see me in the morning, only at night," he answered, cuddling her close. "But I will still be here." He handed her to Silas. "Bring Sir Sebastian, Master Nicholas, and the duke of Lyan to the tower at matins," he told the scholar quietly.

Siobhan was watching, obviously curious but silent, one eyebrow arched in question. "We will have much to discuss." The hall was beginning to fill with knights and soldiers, and the servants were serving the evening meal. The baron of Callard was still standing with Master Nicholas, the two of them deep in conversation. But as Tristan watched, Callard looked up at him and smiled, and the vampire was seized again with the feeling they had met before. He looked over at Simon, his vampire brother, talking with Andrew and Sebastian like any other visiting knight with a tale of distant lands to tell.

"My lord, are you weary?" Siobhan laid a hand on his arm. "Will you come to bed?" She knew he was not hungry, not for food, he thought. She knew he was a vampire.

"Aye, brigand." He cradled her cheek in his palm, and she smiled, the longing in her eyes impossible to miss or to ignore. Looking on her so, he could think of nothing else. He bent and kissed her tenderly. "I will."

She lifted her chin to catch his kiss again when he would pull away, catching his lip in her teeth. "Then come." She felt his arms enfold her, the powerful embrace she had longed for all her life and never known before him. Demon he might be, but she was his, just as he promised, at least for tonight. "Tristan," she whispered, pressing her cheek to his.

"Come," he echoed, a rumbling growl in his throat. Taking her hand, he led her to the stairs.

Gaston approached his master as the king's clerk finally moved away. "I swear, my lord, 'tis not my fault," he said softly for the baron's ears alone, a pointless plea for mercy. Callard was watching with his beautiful, blood-chilling smile as DuMaine and Siobhan left the hall. "Lebuin did swear to me the man was dead."

"Calm yourself, Gaston." The baron turned his eyes to him, still smiling, looking him over like he might have never seen his most faithful slave before. Then he looked over at the strange knight who had supposedly healed DuMaine, this Simon of Lyan, and his smile grew even wider. "All is well," he promised. The look in his eyes made Gaston remember what his own frightened servant had told him. The baron has gone mad. "Indeed, Gaston," he continued, putting a hand on his shoulder and making him flinch.

"Things have fallen out far better than we ever could have dreamed."

Siobhan drew Tristan to her as soon as the door to the bedroom closed behind them. Don't think, she told herself again, clasping her hands at the nape of his neck as she drew him down into her kiss. He obliged her with a twisted smile, teasing the seam of her lips with his tongue before plunging it sweetly inside.

She raised up on tiptoe to reach him, sighing as she felt his arms around her. Before, in the stable, she had been entranced, powerless to resist him. Now she had her wits intact but no will to resist. "Why have you not accused me?" she asked him as she gazed up into his warm green eyes. How could she have ever found him cold? "Why did you not tell your knights and the others what I am?"

"I did." He brushed the hair back from her face. "You are my wife." His kiss this time was harder as he pressed his thumb against her chin and forced her mouth to open under his. Her legs went weak beneath her, and she swayed against him, clutching at his shirt. He was still dressed like a brigand and smelled of the forest, the warm, deliciously masculine smell she knew and loved in a consciousness deeper than thought. But his touch was commanding, a n.o.bleman's touch of possession. No brigand, no matter how handsome or brash he might have been, could ever have dared to touch her so. She ran her hands over his shoulders and arms as he kissed her, his muscles contracting beneath her caress as he held her. But she could not forget for even this moment what he was. When her hands slipped around his tapered waist under his tunic to caress his back, she felt his flesh was cold.

"Vampire," she whispered as he scooped her off her feet. The wife in the book had been stoned for a witch when her dead husband came back to her from his grave. "Did I conjure you?"

"Aye," Tristan answered with a smile. She gazed up at him so sweetly, he could drown in her blue eyes. But last night she had struck him with her sword, a demon killer's blade. "Do you not remember?" Even now with her helpless in his arms, he could feel the sword strapped to her leg beneath her skirts. Did she mean to strike at him again? Why should he believe she did not? He kissed her, pushing the question aside as he carried her to the bed."I wished for you," she said as he lay her before him. "I knew it was wrong, but I dreamed you would come back." She touched his face as he bent over her, tracing the shape of his mouth. "No one had ever wanted me before."

"Nay, brigand," he said, laughing at her innocence. "I swear that is not true." This was the bed where she had ordered he be bound; the cut and broken bindings that had held him still hung from the bedposts. "But I will confess, I am pleased to imagine you believed it." He held her hand against his cheek, kissing her delicate wrist. She had told him she was a virgin that night, and he had laughed at her, enraged and inflamed by her artless, unladylike seduction. But she was a n.o.bleman's daughter. If her father had lived, if she had been brought up gently in a manor on these lands, she would have been a perfect match for him, a most suitable bride. Looking down on her now as she smiled up at him, guileless, fearless yearning in her eyes, he tried to imagine the lady she would have been, but it was impossible. She could be no one but herself, and try as he might, he could not help but love her for it.