"Go!" He rose, swaying slightly on his feet, but strong enough to strike her to the floor with the back of his hand. She huddled on the floor, seeing stars. "Keep this creature away until I call her," he ordered the guardsmen, sitting down again. Lilith started to rise, but he kicked her down again. Cheeks burning with shame, she crawled to the door with the guardsmen behind her. The last time, she promised herself. This is the last time.

As soon as the door was safely shut behind them, John sent the other guard away. "I can keep an eye on this," he said, nodding toward Lilith. "He won't call her back tonight."

"No," the second guardsman agreed. "I won't be far if you need me."

They waited in silence for more than an hour, John standing sentry at the door, Lilith sitting in the corner on the floor, each pretending the other was not there. They must not give themselves away, not until they were certain he was dead. Once they heard a small thud, as if Callard had dropped something, and both of them tensed, Lilith half-rising from her perch. But still they waited."Go," she said at last. "Go and see."

John's eyes went wide, fierce soldier that he was. "Me?"

"He will kill me," Lilith pointed out.

Before he could answer, the outer door opened. "Who goes?" John demanded, raising his pike.

Anthony, the coachman who had been presumed to be killed with his guards in the forest, walked in, his livery torn and stained with blood and dirt. A thick roll of cloth that looked like it had been ripped from his mantle was wadded around his neck. "I must see the baron," he said.

"G.o.d's head, man," John swore, appalled. "What happened to you?"

The coachman smiled, a wide, sunny grin that was eerily unlike him. "You'd never guess." He turned his head to look at Lilith, his movements jerky, like a jester's doll. "The baron?" he asked again, measuring her with his eyes. "Where is he?"

"Inside," John said. "Have you seen the captain of the watch? Where have you been?"

The coachman walked past him without answering, headed for the door.

"Wait, you," John ordered, grabbing his arm. "You..." His face went pale. "Sweet saints, you stink..."

"Let him go," Lilith suggested. Something in Anthony's expression was making her flesh crawl. He was still smiling, but his eyes were dead. "My lord will deal with him."

"Yes," John answered, letting the man go. He wiped his hand on his tunic as the coachman went inside, closing the door behind him.

After a moment, they heard someone laugh, a high-pitched cackle that sounded like neither of the men they knew inside. Then nothing. "He's found him," Lilith said, rising to her feet. "Callard is dead."

"Hush," John ordered, but he offered her his hand. "Come." Leading her with one hand and drawing his sword with the other, he went into the room.

Callard was lying on the bed, his tunic half removed, one bare arm hanging over the side. "Where is Anthony?" Lilith said softly.

"I don't know." The air in the room was thick with the stench of an open grave, strong enough to make the soldier gag. "Holy Christ..." The coachman's clothes were lying in a heap before the fire, crawling with maggots and flies. Lilith screamed, and John caught her close for a moment, covering her mouth with his hand.

"What is it?" she demanded, barely louder than a whisper, when he let her go.

"Why should I know?" John let her go and moved closer to the pile of filth, poking at it with his sword. A rat scuttled out of the rags and over the blade, making Lilith gasp again, catching her own scream this time. He heard a noise behind him and turned as the woman beside him melted to her knees.

Callard was rising from the bed. "No," Lilith whimpered, reaching for John's leg as if she might hide behind it. "It cannot be."

"What a mess," Callard said with a sigh. His voice was just the same, but his inflection seemed different, as if he had a foreign accent. He pulled his tunic the rest of the way off and looked down at himself, touching the hard muscles of his torso as if he had never noticed them before. "Oh, yes," he murmured, smiling to himself. "This will do well." Another rat scurried close by Lilith, and she screamed, leaping to her feet."Forgive us for disturbing you, my lord," John said, shaking her off as she tried to cling to him. "Anthony insisted he must see you..." He looked back at the pile of rotting clothes, his mind searching for some lucid explanation.

"Come here." Callard was still smiling, the beatific grin that strangers found so charming. "Bring me your sword."

"No," Lilith said, grabbing hold of the guardsman's arm. "Don't do it." But the guardsman shook her off again. "John, no..." He held out the sword to Callard, who took it. Still smiling, he raised it and cut off the guardsman's head.

"No!" Lilith screamed. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't seem to move. John's body crumpled to the floor, his head rolling toward the hearth, and Callard stepped over him as if he barely noticed. "Leave me alone," she demanded, her voice breaking in a shriek. "You are dead!"

He raised the sword again, staring down at his own arm as if in awe. "Not so much, my dear." He let the sword fall from his grip and turned his gaze on her. "For which I must thank you." She tried to speak, but her voice dried up as he moved closer. "In truth, I wish I could show mercy." He caught her by the neck and dragged her to him, kissing her mouth. She felt her legs turn weak, the taste of his tongue revolting as he pushed it past her teeth. She wanted to bite him, but the very idea made her sick.

He caught her hair up in his fist and yanked her head back, a gesture she knew from him only too well. "Let me go," she pleaded, writhing in his grasp. His free hand moved up her rib cage to her breast, cradling her softness in his palm, a far less familiar caress.

Then suddenly, his head fell back, and she saw his teeth had changed, the canines long and curved like the fangs of a poisonous snake. "No," she breathed, unable to scream, as he clamped down on her throat.

Siobhan stopped just inside the stable door and leaned against a post to catch her breath. The gash in her throat hurt her a little, but it was no worse than any number of other wounds she had suffered in her years as a brigand. But no other wound had ever made her feel so weak. She closed her eyes for a moment to shut out the light of the torches, their flickering making her dizzy.

Tristan had disappeared from the castle. Somehow, she would have to saddle her horse and ride out. She straightened up, feeling stronger for her moment's rest. Apparently none of the grooms were about, which should make escaping easier. A groom would have asked questions; he might even have alerted Sean. But now she would have to saddle her own horse.

"Make haste," she murmured, urging herself on. "You've done it a thousand times before." Her little mare was already having her supper and didn't take kindly to having her feed bag removed. "Pray pardon, mam'selle," Siobhan teased, scratching her behind the ear to make it up. The mare's last mistress had been a Norman maiden on her way to seek asylum in a convent, the first owner of Siobhan's best gowns as well. She had cursed Sean for the devil incarnate in a voice like a cat stretched on a rack and had declared Siobhan an unnatural monster. "Ah, well," she said now, remembering. " 'Tis likely she was right."

"Who was right, dear heart?" She turned at the sound of his voice, and for a moment, he could have sworn she almost smiled.

"Where are you going, Siobhan?" Tristan hadn't gone at all. He was watching her from the shadows, his arrogant smile on his lips.

"To find you." She drew her sword. "I have to kill you." She lunged for him, and he caught her easily, holding the wrist of her sword arm captured in his fist.

"Do you want to kill me?" Tristan had been amused to see her coming after him, and something more, a darker feeling like his hunger for her blood. Speaking to her now, he felt a strange new power in his voice, a hypnotic rumble in his throat like the purr of a lion to its prey. "Tell me the truth."

"No," she admitted. She couldn't help herself; she felt entranced. While she gazed up into his eyes, nothing else in the world seemed to matter, as if he were her love indeed. But this power was unnatural, a demon's trick like his power to heal. She did not want to tell him the truth of her heart; she didn't want to tell him anything. But she couldn't stop. "We did wrong you, Tristan." His eyes went wide, his sensual mouth turning hard, ready to sneer. "But I would do the same again."

"Why?" He caught her by the shoulders, making her face him, and she dropped the sword. "Why, Siobhan?"

"Because you are my enemy." She saw pain in his eyes, fury at the sheer injustice of her words. "You think it was all Sean, but I swear it was not. It was me, too. Even if Sean had died in the siege, I would have killed you myself." His grip tightened painfully, his fingers bruising her flesh. "Why will you not kill me?"

Even now, under a spell of his own making, she called him nothing but her enemy, gazing up at him with those wide blue eyes that would haunt him forever, immortal or not. "Do you want me to kill you?" he demanded, tempted to shake her like a rat.

"No." She didn't even want to run anymore, she realized. She had no more will to escape him. "I only want to know why you will not."

His answer was to kiss her. Still holding her hard by the shoulders, he bent slowly forward, his eyes locked to hers, and she faced him, her lips slightly parted, her own eyes open wide. He barely brushed her mouth with his, and she shivered, swaying slightly backward in his grasp. "I will kill you, darling." He kissed her more firmly, open-mouthed but soft. "Just not yet." He kissed her in earnest, lifting her up to reach her. He tasted her tongue, heard her sigh as she melted against him, her hands clutching his shirt. He set her on the railing of the stall, putting her face level with his. "You are mine," he murmured, framing her jaw in his hands as he kissed her cheek.

"No." He kissed her eyelids, first one then the other, so tenderly she almost felt like crying. No one had ever treated her so tenderly in her life as this Norman who promised to kill her. "I am my own, myself." His tongue swirled softly in the crevice of her ear, making her tremble. "Please...I want to be myself."

"Yes," he promised, smiling as he kissed the corner of her mouth. "I would want nothing else, little demon." He had thought that he wanted her to fight him, that he needed her fury to take her and be satisfied. But this strange surrender moved him more, he found. He kissed her mouth again, crushing her sweet lips, his c.o.c.k going hard enough to hurt him. "You shall be d.a.m.ned as you are."

She barely heard him anymore; his words meant nothing. All that mattered was his touch. His arms enfolded her, so strong she knew he could hold her forever. She pressed her cheek to his, nuzzling his skin, thrilling to the stubble of his beard. He was a man, as rough and strong as any brigand she had ever known, with the arrogant will of a king. He had no fear, no doubt in the rightness of his course. Above all else, in spite of all, he wanted her just as she was.

"Tristan," she murmured, half pleading, her fingers tangled in the softness of his hair. He kissed her throat, barely touching the wound he had left there, and a thrill raced through her, burning and sudden as lightning. Her body arched upward of its own accord as if to beg for murder, but his kiss moved on, trailing softly down her throat to her shoulder. His hands unlaced her tunic as his eyes met hers, a wicked half-smile daring her to protest. "Demon," she cursed him, smiling back, her palm against his cheek. She should fight him, try to get away, to slay him as she knew she must. But in this moment, she could not.

"Brigand," he answered in kind. Somewhere outside the warm dark of the stable, vengeance waited, all that he was sworn to do.

But all that mattered now was her, his beautiful enemy, Siobhan. He held her hand against his cheek, turning to kiss her wrist. Her pulse was still weak from his bite, but her skin was warm with life.

He drew her to him, moving closer, and she wrapped her legs around him. "Wanton," he scolded, eyes wide, and she laughed.

"So you have said." She ran her hands over his shoulders, molding the muscles of his arms. "So cold," she murmured, kissing the side of his neck, nuzzling under his shirt. "Why are you so cold?"

"Because you murdered me." He caught her face between his hands and made her look at him, remembering the word Simon had used. "Because I am a vampire."

"Vampire," she repeated. That was the name of the demon he had become. He kissed her, pushing forward, and she caught him by the shoulders to stop herself falling over backward. His hands slid underneath her tunic to the lacings on her breeches, and she smiled. "I am barely a woman, remember?"

"You are a woman," he answered, his voice turning rough as a growl. His kiss moved to her breast, its softness cupped so gently in his palm to bring the nipple up over her open blouse. The cool wet of his mouth made her shiver, her skin breaking out in gooseflesh, but the chill was sweet. He suckled tenderly, his demon's fangs barely bruising her skin, and she gasped, nearly falling again as her thighs went weak with pleasure. "This is a woman," he promised, kissing the valley between as he moved to the other breast.

He put a hand between her legs again, his other arm around her waist to hold her as she rose up off the rail. He yanked the breeches down and off with a speed and skill that made her gasp. "G.o.d's faith, my lord Norman," she teased him, turning her face away as he rose up to kiss her. "Methinks you have unpantsed a lad before."

"Peace, woman," he warned her just before he bruised her mouth with his. He put himself between her thighs, his hands molding her hips. He gathered her close to him, his s.e.x brushing hers for a moment, and she thought she might swoon at the shock of it, hard c.o.c.k behind rough wool against her tender flesh. Then he backed away, bending again to her breast. His hand moved slowly to her s.e.x, lazily exploring.

"G.o.d's faith, my lady brigand," he mocked her, twisting her curls around his finger. "Do all your lovers make you turn so wet?"

"Nay, sirrah," she answered, fighting for her voice as tremors rippled through her, making her feel weak. "Not all." His fingers barely curved into the cleft to press the sensitive b.u.t.ton of flesh at the crest, and she gasped, clutching his shirt. "Your needs must be quite proud," she managed to murmur, bending her head to his shoulder.

He smiled, turning to kiss her cheek. "I am." He kissed her mouth, drawing her lower lip into his mouth as his fingers pressed further, finding resistance. "But you lie." He raised his head to look at her. "You have no other lovers."

"Nay, I told you not." She draped her hands around his neck to draw him closer, arching up against his touch. "Does it matter, demon?"

Innocent or not, he had never seen such an exquisite little wanton. "No, brigand." He guided the tip of his c.o.c.k to her entrance, teasing them both. "It does not." Her lips parted, panting breath, a sight to drive him mad. Unable to hold back another moment, he drove himself inside her.

She cried out, clinging to him as if for comfort as her body opened to his thrust, sharp pain dissolving into pleasure such as she had never felt. She had touched herself before and found release, but she had never felt another flesh inside of her, filling her up. The very strangeness of it shook her to the core. For a moment, he was still, cradling her close and kissing her cheek as she held him so tightly her arms began to ache. Then slowly he began to move, drawing back and pushing forward, delving deeper with each stroke. His hands were braced against the rail, and his eyes were closed, his brow drawn deep in concentration, making her long to kiss him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, one arm still curved around his neck. With the other hand, she traced the muscles of his arm, thrilling as ever to the brutal power she could feel beneath his skin. His green eyes opened, meeting hers, and the gentle waves of pleasure she had felt lapping through her swelled into a single, gorgeous flood.

"Tristan," she whispered, and he smiled, the arrogant sneer that she had tried to despise but that turned her flesh to flame. He quickened his rhythm, and she melted, trusting him to hold her as her head fell back. The wave inside her exploded, ecstasy drowning her completely, and still he was pounding, making the wave roll on. Only when she thought she must surely be dying did she feel him come as well, a last powerful thrust to touch her soul.

He gathered her into his arms, lifting her off the rail. She sighed, as soft and pliant as a newborn lamb, and he kissed her, feeling drunk. "Sweet demon," he soothed her, lowering her to a soft nest of straw. She tried to hold him as he moved to let her go.

"No," she insisted. "You must not..." She sounded as lost as he felt, and her poor little body was exhausted. But still she would fight him; she was reaching for her sword.

"Hush, my lady." He caught her hand and kissed the palm, pressing it to his cheek for a moment before he let her go.

"No one," she said, seeming to fight for her voice. "No one else must die."

He smiled, caressing her hair. "As you will." He traced the shape of her mouth, entranced himself. "You need not seek me out to kill me, love." She looked up at him, her blue eyes haunted by the same strange agony he felt. "I will come again." He bent and kissed her one last time before he let her go.The old groom had heard his young mistress sighing with her lover and had kept his distance, not wishing to disturb her. Such beauty deserved to be loved. But when he saw the man who emerged from the stable, he thought he must be dreaming. "No," he muttered, fading back into the shadows lest he be seen. "It cannot be." He crossed himself for mercy as Tristan DuMaine disappeared into the night.

Tristan rounded the corner of the stable and melted into canine form as a pair of figures parted near the wall. One was a stranger who skulked toward the gates. The other was Gaston, the courtier he had seen with Lebuin, moving openly toward the tower.

When they were gone, he went to where they had met and found a dead man lying on the ground. His eyes were open and staring, his lips drawn back in a grimace of rage and horror. He was Tristan's enemy, part of the force who had taken his castle and his life away. But looking down on him, the vampire felt no satisfaction in his death. No one dies tonight, Siobhan had insisted, and he had agreed. I can swear but for myself, sweeting, he thought, turning away. Your friends are another affair. The sky was still pitch-dark, but he could feel the dawn approaching-another new talent of his demon nature. If he meant to reach his shelter in the forest, he must go. One of his own hunting hounds came around the corner and stopped to sniff at the corpse. She looked up at Tristan, a question in her liquid eyes. Then she turned away and headed for the shelter of the kennels, a cozy little nest at the foot of the tower, well protected from the sun. Smiling inside his magical disguise, Tristan trotted after her.

CHAPTER 09

Siobhan heard voices, people shouting from somewhere far away. Sunlight was falling in filtered beams through the thatch of the roof. She had slept through the night.

"Siobhan!" She heard Sean's voice, and relief swept through her. He was alive.

"Here," she called out, sitting up. Her clothes were pulled askew-good lord, she was still half-naked. "Sean, I'm here!" She scrambled into her breeches just as her brother burst in.

"Sweet Christ," he mumbled, falling to his knees beside her. "You live." He gathered her into his arms.

"Of course." She felt so tired, so cold...she couldn't think. Tristan had returned. "Sean..." He held her close for a moment in a blissfully warm embrace.

Michael came running in and stopped when he saw them. "Oh no..."

"It's all right," Sean said. He drew back and saw the gash in her throat. "Who did this to you?" he demanded.

"I...," she began and stopped. Tell him, Tristan said inside her head. Tell him I have returned. Tell him you are mine. "I don't remember," she lied. "I didn't see."

"We've found a second body," Michael said. "Angus, the captain, thrown into the ditch."

Siobhan felt the breath rush out of her, but she could not make a sound.

"Like Sam?" Sean said, gently touching the wound in her throat.

"Worse," Michael answered. "His throat is torn so badly, he's nearly beheaded. But there is no blood."

"Sam?" She felt sick; the stable seemed to be spinning around her. Angus had never been one of her favorites, but he was one of their men, a brigand who had been with them from the beginning of their quest. And Sam..."Sam is dead?"

"Aye, love," Sean said, caressing her hair. "His body was found near the castle wall this morning. When you weren't in your room..." He drew her close again.

"Sean, listen to me." As dearly as she wanted comfort, she pulled away. "I have to tell you something." "Michael, have Silas brought to the hall," Sean said, his eyes meeting hers. "And Gaston." He stood up and scooped her off her feet with a slight groan.

"I can walk," she insisted, but in truth, she wasn't sure she could. Sean hadn't picked her up since she was a child. But Tristan had, as if it were nothing at all. Had Sam been dead already? He had promised no one else would die. She could believe he had murdered them all for vengeance, but she could not believe he had lied.

"I will," Michael was saying. "And I will send Cilla to tend you, love." He gave her hand a squeeze as he left, and she sank against Sean's shoulder, her arms draped limp around his neck as he carried her out into the courtyard. At the far end, she could see a patrol lifting Sam's corpse from the ground, and rage and fear swept over her, making her feel sick. His clothes were soaked with blood, his eyes staring blind, his lips drawn back in a grimace. "Sweet Christ," she murmured, hiding her face against Sean.

"Hush," he answered, kissing her forehead again. "It will be all right." Siobhan could feel him tremble and hear the fury barely restrained in his tone. His reputation as a brigand notwithstanding, Sean's temper was slow to rise, but when it flamed, it could rival h.e.l.l itself. But for her, his fear was worse. And he was right to be afraid. Tell Sean I will take all that he loves, Tristan had told her as he held her to the bed. He had killed Bruce and Callum on the road, Angus and Sam inside the castle walls. He meant to kill them all.

She closed her eyes as they crossed the bridge, trying not to think of anything until they were alone. She had betrayed her people, her own blood, for the kisses of a demon who despised them all. And now Sam, a brave, true warrior who had loved her well, was dead.

"My lady!" She opened her eyes as they pa.s.sed into the hall and saw Emma running towards them. "Captain, what has happened?"

"Bring the little one, Lady Clare," Sean answered her. "She must go upstairs with Siobhan."

"Sean, no," Siobhan protested, coming to life in his arms. "I have to speak with you alone." How could she tell him Tristan was a monster with Tristan's own daughter at her side?

"I will find her," Emma said, nodding. "We will follow you."

"It will be all right," Sean murmered, kissing her hair as he started up the stairs.