Adam Colter fingered a strand of Holly’s light brown hair as she lay sleeping. Her back was nestled into his chest, her behind cradled in his groin.

He allowed his hand to slide from her hair to her shoulder then down her side and over the swell of her belly. Underneath his fingers, the baby moved, and his chest tightened at the fierce satisfaction that gripped him.

She stirred restlessly, and he pulled his hand away, not wanting to disturb her sleep. She tired easily these days with the baby being due just a few short weeks from now.

With reluctance, he pressed a kiss to her head then carefully extricated himself from the bed. He dressed then went in search of his brothers.

He found Ethan and Ryan in the kitchen eating breakfast. They looked up as Adam entered, their gazes questioning.

“Holly still asleep?” Ethan asked.

Adam nodded. “She didn’t even stir when I slipped out of bed.”

Concern wrinkled Ryan’s brow. “She’s been awfully tired lately.”

Adam took the seat at the bar next to his brothers. “I wanted to talk to you both while she’s sleeping.”

Ethan frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I just wondered if we shouldn’t move Holly to Denver well before her due date. I was thinking two weeks at least. I don’t like the idea of her going into labor early and getting stuck on the mountain.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Ryan said. “The idea of her going into labor here scares the shit out of me.”

Ethan nodded his agreement. “If you want I can call and book a condo.”

“Do that,” Adam said. “I’ll make arrangements with Riley to take care of the horses while we’re gone.”

A light shuffling sound had Adam and the others turning around. Holly stood in the doorway, her hair disheveled and dark circles under her eyes.

“Good morning,” she murmured as she walked over.

She slid into Adam’s arms and turned her face up for his kiss. He covered her mouth, enjoying the taste of her sweet lips.

After a moment, she eased from his arms and turned to Ryan. Ryan folded her in his arms and hugged her tight, his hand going down to tenderly cup her belly.

“Mornin’,” he murmured as he gave her a gentle kiss.

She rested a moment in Ryan’s arms before going to Ethan.

“How are you feeling, doll?” Ethan asked as he slid his arms around her.

“Tired,” she admitted. “Little Bit here has his days and nights mixed up I’m afraid.”

“Kept you up, huh,” Ethan said sympathetically. “Sit down and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

She shook her head. “I’m not that hungry. Thought I’d get some juice and go sit on the front porch for a bit.”

Adam exchanged worried glances with his brothers as she headed to the fridge to pour herself a glass of juice. She waddled back out of the kitchen, and a few seconds later, they heard the front door open then close.

“Book that condo,” Adam said grimly. “We’ll head out after her next check-up with the midwife.”

Chapter One

“What do you mean she left me the embryos? I’m supposed to get the cat.” Pia O’Brian paused long enough to put her hand on her chest. The shock of hearing the details of Crystal’s will had been enough to stop the strongest of hearts and Pia’s was still bruised from the loss of her friend.

She was relieved to find her heart still beating, although the rhythm qualified more as racing than slow.

“It’s the cat,” she repeated, speaking as clearly as possible so the well-dressed attorney sitting across from her would understand. “His name is Jake. I’m not really a pet person, but we’ve made peace with each other. I think he likes me. It’s hard to tell—he keeps to himself. I guess most cats do.”

Pia thought about offering to bring in the cat so the lawyer could see for herself, but wasn’t sure that would help.

“Crystal would never leave me her babies,” Pia added with a whisper. Mostly because it was true. Pia had never had a maternal or nurturing thought in her life. Taking care of the cat had been a big step for her.

“Ms. O’Brian,” the attorney said with a brief smile. “Crystal was very clear in her will. She and I spoke several times as her illness progressed. She wanted you to have her embryos. Only you.”

“But I...” Pia swallowed.

Embryos. Somewhere in a lab-like facility were frozen test tubes or other containers and inside of them were the potential babies her friend had so longed for.

“I know this is a shock,” the lawyer, a forty-something elegant woman in a tailored suit, said. “Crystal debated telling you what she’d done. Apparently she decided against letting you know in advance.”

“Probably because she knew I’d try to talk her out of it,” Pia muttered.

“For now, you don’t have to do anything. The storage fees are paid for the next three years. There’s some paperwork to be filled out, but we can take care of it later.”

Pia nodded. “Thank you,” she said and rose. A quick glance at her watch told her she was going to have to hurry or she would be late for her ten-thirty appointment back at her office.

“Crystal picked you for a reason,” the attorney said as Pia walked toward the door.

Pia gave the older woman a tight smile and headed for the stairs. Seconds later, she was outside, breathing deeply, wondering when the world was going to stop spinning.

This was not happening, she told herself as she started walking. It couldn’t be. What had Crystal been thinking? There were dozens of other women she could have left the embryos to. Hundreds, probably. Women who were good with kids, who knew how to bake and comfort and test for a fever with the back of their hands.

Pia couldn’t even keep a house plant alive. She was a lousy hugger. Her last boyfriend had complained she always let go first. Probably because being held too long made her feel trapped. Not exactly a sterling quality for a potential parent.

Her stomach felt more than a little queasy. What had Crystal been thinking and why? Why her? That’s what she couldn’t get over. The fact that her friend had made such a crazy decision. And without ever mentioning it.

Fool’s Gold was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone else and secrets were hard to keep. Apparently Crystal had managed to break with convention and keep some huge information to herself.

Pia reached her office building. The first floor of the structure held several retail businesses. A card store, a gift shop with the most amazing fudge, and Morgan’s Bookstore. Her office was upstairs.

She went through the plain wooden door off the side street and climbed to the second story. She could see a tall man standing by her locked office door.

“Hi,” she called. “Sorry I’m late.”

The man turned.

There was a window behind him, so she couldn’t see his face, but she knew her schedule for the morning and the name of the man who was her next appointment. Raoul Moreno was tall, with huge shoulders. Despite the unusually cool September day, he hadn’t bothered with a coat. Instead he wore a vee-neck sweater over dark jeans.

A man’s man, she thought unexpectedly. Which made sense. Raoul Moreno was a former professional football player. He’d been a quarterback with the Dallas Cowboys. After ten years in the game, he’d retired on top and had disappeared from public view. Last year he’d shown up in Fool’s Gold for a Pro-Am charity golf tournament. For reasons she couldn’t figure out, he’d stayed.

As she got closer, she took in the large dark eyes, the handsome face. There was a scar on his cheek—probably from protecting an old lady during a mugging. He had a reputation for being nice. Pia made it a rule never to trust nice people.

“Ms. O’Brian,” he began. “Thanks for seeing me.”

She unlocked her office door and motioned for him to go inside.

“Pia, please. My ‘Ms. O’Brian’ years are looming, but I’m not ready for them yet.”

He was good looking enough that she should have been distracted. Under other circumstances, she probably would have been. But at the moment, she was wondering if the chemo treatments had scrambled Crystal’s brain. Her friend had always seemed so rational. Obviously that had been a façade.

Pia motioned to the visitor chair in front of her desk and hung her coat on the rack by the door.

Her office was small but functional. There was a good sized main room with a custom three year calendar covering most of one wall. The squares were half dry-erase material and half cork board.

Posters for various Fool’s Gold festivals took up the rest of the wall space. She had a storage room and a half bath in the rear, several cabinets and a filing system that bordered on compulsively organized. As a rule she made it a point to visit rather than have people come to her, but scheduling wise, having Raoul stop by had made the most sense.

Of course that had been before she’d found out she’d been left three very frozen potential children.

She crossed to the small refrigerator in the corner. “I have diet soda and water.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re not the diet type.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Are you asking or telling?”

She smiled. “Am I wrong?”

“Water’s fine.”

“I knew it.”

She collected a bottle and a can, then returned to her desk. After handing him the bottle, she took a seat and stared at the yellow pad in front of her. There was writing on it, very possibly in English. She could sort of make out individual letters, but not words and certainly not sentences.

They were supposed to have a meeting about something. That much was clear. She handled the city festivals in town. There were over a dozen civic events that she ran every year. But her mind didn’t go any further than that. When she tried to remember why Raoul was here, she went blank. Her brain was filled with other things.

Babies. Crystal had left her babies. Okay, embryos, but the implication was clear. Crystal wanted her children to be born. Which meant someone was going to have to get them implanted, grow them and later give birth. Although that was terrifying enough, there was also the further horror of raising them.

Children weren’t like cats. She knew that much. They would need more than dry food, a bowl of water and a clean litter box. A lot more.

“Oh, God, I can’t do this,” she whispered.

Raoul frowned. “I don’t understand. Do you want to reschedule the meeting?”

Meeting? Oh, right. He was here for something. His camp and he wanted her to...

Her mind went blank, again. Right after the merciful emptiness, there was panic. Deep to the bone, intestine-wrenching, panic.

She stood and wrapped her arms around her midsection, breathing hard and fast.

“I can’t do this. It’s impossible. What was she thinking? She had to know better.”

“Pia?”

Her visitor rose. She turned to tell him that rescheduling was probably a good idea when the room began to spin. It turned and turned, darkening on the edges.

The next thing she knew, she was in her chair, bent over at the waist, her head between her knees with something pressing down on the back of her neck.

“This is uncomfortable,” she said.

“Keep breathing.”

“Easier said than done. Let go.”

“A couple more breaths.”

The pressure on the back of her neck lessened. Slowly, she straightened and blinked.

Raoul Moreno was crouched next to her, his dark eyes cloudy with concern. She took another breath and realized he smelled really good. Clean, but with a hint of something else.

“You all right?” he asked.

“What happened?”

“You started to faint.”

Pia blinked at him. “I don’t faint. I never faint. I—” Her memory returned. “Oh, crap.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m so not ready to be a mother.”

Raoul moved with a speed that was a credit to his physical conditioning and nearly comical at the same time.

“Man trouble?” he asked cautiously.

“What?” She lowered her hands. “No. I’m not pregnant. That would require sex. Or not. Actually it wouldn’t, would it? This is so not happening.”

“Okay.” He sounded nervous. “Should I call a doctor?”

“No, but you can go if you want. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows. “Are you commenting on my appearance?”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“That sounded almost critical.”

“You know what I meant.”

She did. “I’m okay. I’ve had a bit of a shock. A friend of mine died recently. She was married to a guy in the army. Before he was shipped off to Iraq, they decided to do in-vitro, just in case something happened to him. So she could have his kids.”

“Sad, but it makes sense.”

She nodded. “He was killed a couple of years ago. She took it really hard, but after a while, she decided she would have the babies. At least a part of him would live on, right?”

Pia rose and paced the length of the office. Moving seemed to help. She took a couple of cautious breaths, to make sure she was going to stay conscious. Fainting? Impossible. Yet the world really had started to blur.

She forced herself back to the topic at hand.

“She went to the doctor for a routine physical,” she continued. “They discovered she had lymphoma. And not the good kind.”

“There’s a good kind?”

She shrugged. “There’s a kind that can usually be cured. She didn’t have that one. And then she was gone. I have her cat. I thought I’d be keeping him. We have a relationship. Sort of. It’s hard to tell with a cat.”

“They keep to themselves.”

There was something about the way he spoke. She glared at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No.”

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Don’t mess with me,” she told him. “Or I’ll talk about my feelings.”

“Anything but that.”

She returned to her desk and sank into the chair. “She didn’t leave me the cat. She left me the embryos. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what she was thinking. Babies. God—anyone but me. And I can’t ignore it. Them. That’s what the attorney hinted at. That I could let it go for a while because the ‘fees’ are paid for three years.” She looked at him. “I guess that’s the frozen part. Maybe I should go see them.”

“They’re embryos. What’s there to see?”

“I don’t know. Something. Can’t they put them under a microscope? Maybe if I saw them, I would understand.” She stared at him as if he had the answer. “Why did she think I could raise her children?”

“I’m sorry, Pia. I don’t know.”

He looked uncomfortable. His gaze lingered on the door. Reality returned and with it, a sense of embarrassment.

“Sorry,” she murmured, standing. “We’ll reschedule. I’ll compose myself and be much better next time. Let me look over my calendar and give you a call.”

He reached for the door handle, then paused. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

No, she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything. But that wasn’t Raoul’s problem.

She forced a smile. “I’m great. Seriously, you should go. I’m going to call a couple of girlfriends and let them talk me down.”

“Okay.” He hesitated. “You have my number?”

“Uh huh.” She wasn’t sure if she did, but she was determined to let him escape while she still had a shred of dignity. “The next time you see me, I’ll be professionalism personified. I swear.”

“Thanks. You take care.”

“Bye.”

He left.

When the door closed, she sank back into her chair. After lowering her arms to the desk, she rested her head on them and did her best to keep breathing.

Crystal had left her the embryos. There were only two questions that mattered. Why, and what the hell was Pia supposed to do now?

#

Raoul arrived at Ronan Elementary shortly before two. He parked in the lot by the playground. No surprise—his was the only Ferrari in the parking lot. He was a guy who liked his toys, so sue him.

Before he could climb out of the car, his cell phone rang. He checked his watch—he had a few minutes before he was due inside—then the phone number on the screen. As he pushed the “talk” button, he grinned.

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hey, yourself,” Hawk, his former high school football coach, said. “Nicole hasn’t heard from you in a while and I’m calling to find out why.”

Raoul laughed. “I talked to your beautiful wife last week, so I know that’s not why you’re calling.”

“You got me. I’m checking on you. Making sure you’re moving on with your life.”

That was Hawk, Raoul thought with equal parts frustration and appreciation. Cutting right to the heart of what was wrong.

“You had some bad stuff happen,” the older man continued. “Don’t wallow.”

“I’m not wallowing. I’m busy.”

“You’re in your head too much. I know you. Find a cause. It’ll distract you. You can’t change what happened.”

Raoul’s good humor faded. Hawk was right about that. The past couldn’t be undone. Those who were gone stayed gone. No amount of bargaining, no sum of money, made it better.

“I can’t let it go,” he admitted.

“You’ll have to. Maybe not today, but soon. Believe in the possibility of healing, Raoul. Right now, that’s enough.”

It seemed impossible, but he’d been trusting Hawk for nearly twenty years. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Call Nicole.”

“I will.”

They hung up.

Raoul sat in his car for a few more seconds, thinking about what Hawk had told him. Get involved. Find a cause. What the other man didn’t know was how much Raoul wanted to avoid that. Getting involved is what had caused the problem in the first place. Life was much safer lived at a distance.

He got out of his car and collected the small duffle he’d brought with him. Whenever he visited a school, he brought a few official NFL footballs and player cards. It made the kids happy, and that’s why he was here. To entertain and maybe slip in a little motivation when they weren’t looking.

He glanced at the main school building. It was older but well-kept. He usually spoke to high school aged kids, but the principal and class teacher had both been persistent to the point of stalking. He was new to small town life and figuring out the rules as he went. As he planned to settle in Fool’s Gold permanently, he’d decided to err on the side of cooperation.

He stepped toward the main walkway, then made his way into the building. Unlike the inner city schools he usually visited, there weren’t any metal detectors or even a guard. The double doors stood open, the halls were wide and well-lit, the walls free of graffiti. Like the rest of Fool’s Gold, the school was almost too good to be true.

He followed the signs for the main office and found himself in a big open area, with a long counter. There were the usual bulletin boards with flyers for book drives and after school programs. A dark-haired woman sat at a desk, typing on an ancient looking computer.

“Morning,” he said.

The woman—probably in her mid-thirties—looked up. Her mouth fell open as she stood and waved her hands. “Oh, God. You’re here. You’re really here! I can’t believe it.” She hurried toward him. “Hi. I’m Rachel. My dad is a huge fan. He’s going to die when he finds out I met you.”

“I hope not,” Raoul said easily, pulling a card out of the bag and reaching for a pen.

“What?”

“I hope he doesn’t die.”

Rachel laughed. “He won’t, but he’ll be so jealous. I heard you were coming. And here you are. This is just so exciting. Raoul Moreno in our school.”

“What’s your dad’s name?”

“Norm.”

He signed the card and passed it to her. “Maybe this will help him deal with his disappointment.”

She took the paper reverently and placed a hand on her chest. “Thank you so much. This is wonderful.” She glanced at the clock, then sighed. “I suppose I have to take you to Mrs. Miller’s class now.”

“I should probably get started talking to the kids.”

“Right. That’s why you’re here. It’s been wonderful to meet you.”

“You, too, Rachel.”

She came out from behind the counter, then led him back into the hallway. As they walked, she chatted about the school and the town, all the while glancing at him with a combination of appreciation and flirtatiousness. It came with the territory and he’d learned a long time ago not to take the attention seriously.

Mrs. Miller’s class was at the end of the hall. Rachel held the door open for him.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks.”

He entered the room alone.

There were about twenty young kids, all staring wide-eyed, while their teacher, an attractive woman in her forties, fluttered.

“Oh, Mr. Moreno, I can’t thank you enough for speaking with us today. It’s such a thrill.”

Raoul smiled. “I’m always happy to come talk to kids in school.” He glanced at the class. “Morning.”

A few of the students greeted him. A few more looked too excited to speak. At least the boys did. Most of the girls didn’t seem impressed at all.

“Fourth grade, right?” he asked.

A girl with glasses in the front row nodded. “We’re the accelerated group, reading above grade level.”

“Uh oh,” he said, taking an exaggerated step back. “The smart kids. You going to ask me a math question?”

Her mouth curved into a smile. “Do you like math?”

“Yeah, I do.” He looked up at the class. “Who here really likes school a lot?”

A few kids raised their hands.

“School can change your life,” he said, settling one hip on the teacher’s desk. “When you grow up, you’re going to get jobs and work for a living. Today most of your responsibilities are about doing well in school. Who knows why we need to learn things like reading and math?”

More hands went up.

His usual talk was on staying motivated, finding a mentor, making a better life, but that seemed like a little much for the average nine year-old. So he was going to talk about how important it was to like school and do your best.

Mrs. Miller hovered. “Do you need anything?” she asked in a whisper. “Can I get you something?”

“I’m good.”

He turned his attention back to the students. The girl in the front row stared at him. There was something intense about her gaze. Oddly enough—she reminded him of Pia. Maybe it was her obvious lack of interest in him as a person. Pia hadn’t gushed, either. She’d barely noticed him. Not a real surprise, given how her morning had started. But he’d noticed her. She’d been cute and funny, even without trying.

He returned his attention to the students, drew in a breath and frowned. He inhaled again, smelling something odd.

If this had been a high school, he would have assumed an experiment gone bad in the science lab. Or a batch of forgotten cookies in home ec. But elementary schools didn’t have those facilities.

He turned to Mrs. Miller. “Do you smell that?”

She nodded, her blue eyes concerned. “Maybe something happened in the cafeteria.”

“Is there a fire?” one of the boys asked.

“Everyone stay seated,” Mrs. Miller said firmly, as she walked toward the door.

She placed a hand on it before slowly pulling it open. As she did, the smell of smoke got stronger. Seconds later, the fire alarms went off.

She turned to him. “It’s only the second day of school. We haven’t practiced what to do. I think there really is a fire.”

The kids were already standing up and looking scared. He knew they weren’t very far from panic.

“You know where we’re supposed to go?” he asked. “The way out?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He turned to the students. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked in a voice loud enough to be heard over the bells.

“Mrs. Miller,” someone yelled.

“Exactly. Everyone get in line and follow Mrs. Miller as we go into the hall. There are going to be a lot of kids out there. Stay calm. I’ll go last and make sure you all get out of the building.”

Mrs. Miller motioned for her students to move toward the door.

“Follow me,” she said. “We’ll go quickly. Everyone hold hands. Don’t let go. Everything is fine. Just stay together.”

Mrs. Miller went out the door. The children began to follow her. Raoul waited to make sure everyone left. One little boy seemed to hesitate before leaving.

“It’s okay,” Raoul told him, his voice deliberately calm. He reached for the boy’s hand, but the child flinched, as if expecting to be hit. The kid—all red hair and freckles—ducked out before Raoul could say anything.

Raoul went into the hall. The smell of smoke was more intense. Several kids were crying. A few stood in the middle of the hallway, their hands over their ears. The bells rang endlessly as teacher called for the students to follow them outside.

“Come on,” he said, scooping the nearest little girl into his arms. “Let’s go.”

“I’m scared,” she said.

“I’m big enough to keep you safe.”

Another little boy grabbed hold of his arm. Tears filled the kid’s eyes. “It’s too loud.”

“Then let’s go outside, where it’s quieter.”

He walked quickly, herding kids as he went. Teachers ran back and forth, counting heads, checking to make sure no one was left behind.

When Raoul and his group of kids reached the main doors leading outside, the children took off at a run. He put down the girl he’d been carrying and she raced toward her teacher. He could see smoke pouring into the sky, a white-gray cloud covering the brilliant blue.

Students flowed out around him. Names were called. Teachers sorted the groups by grades, then classes. Raoul turned and went back into the building.

Now he could do more than smell smoke. He could see it. The air was thick and getting darker, making it hard to breathe. He went room by room, pushing open doors, checking under the large teacher desks in front, scanning to make sure no one was left behind.

He found a tiny little girl in a corner of the third room he entered, her face wet with tears. She was coughing and sobbing. He picked her up, turned and almost ran into a firefighter.

“I’ll take her,” the woman said, looking at him from behind a mask and grabbing the girl. “Get the hell out of here. The building is nearly seventy years old. God knows what cocktail of chemicals is in the air.”

“There might be more kids.”

“I know, and the longer we stand here talking, the more danger they’re in. Now move.”

He followed the firefighter out of the building. It wasn’t until he was outside, that he realized he was coughing and choking. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.

When he could breathe again, he straightened. The scene was controlled chaos. Three fire trucks stood in front of the school. Students huddled together on the lawn, well back from the building. Smoke poured out in all directions.

A few people screamed and pointed. Raoul turned and saw flames licking through the roof at the far end of the school.

He turned to head back in. A firefighter grabbed him by the arm.

“Don’t even think about it,” the woman told him. “Leave this to the professionals.”

He nodded, then started coughing again.

She shook her head. “You went back inside, didn’t you? Civilians. Do you think we wear the masks because they’re pretty? Medic!” She yelled the last word and pointed at him.

“I’m fine,” Raoul managed, his chest tight.

“Let me guess. You’re a doctor, too. Cooperate with the nice lady or I’ll tell her you need an enema.”

From the book

1

Demon plane of Oblivion, City of Ash
Year 192 in the Rule of the Dead

"Do we go to our death--or worse?"

Malkom Slaine gazed over at his best friend, Prince Kallen the Just, wishing he had a better answer for him, anything to ease the apprehension in Kallen's eyes.

As the vampire guards shoved them along, deeper into their stronghold, Malkom suspected death might be welcome before the night was out.

"The rumors are likely untrue," he lied, putting up a renewed resistance as the dozen guards forced them down a flight of stone steps. But his bonds were mystical; Malkom was unable to teleport or break free.

At the base of the stairs lay a subterranean chamber with an ornate throne on a dais. Though the floor was of packed earth, the walls were hung with rich silks and tapestries. Rare crystal and glass adorned the room.

At once, Malkom began analyzing every inch of the area for an escape. Ahead, a pair of winded demon slaves stood beside a freshly dug grave. More guards lined the walls, with swords at the ready. In the back, a black-robed sorcerer worked at a vial-cluttered table.

Gods, let the rumors be untrue ... those whispers of the ScÂrba--the abominations.

Kallen muttered, "Can you see a way out of this?"

Normally, Malkom could. Without fail, he figured his way out of seemingly impossible predicaments. "Not as of yet."

The guards shoved Kallen and Malkom to their knees before the grave.

"Ronath will pay for this once I get free," Kallen grated. Ronath the Armorer was a seasoned warrior, the strongest demon after Malkom. He'd once been Kallen's favored commander. "The traitor will not see another night."

'Twas Ronath who'd turned Malkom over to the vampires. Disastrous enough. But without Malkom's unwavering defense, Kallen's fortress had fallen just a week later. The Trothans' beloved prince had been captured.

Blinded by his hatred for Malkom--a slave turned commander--Ronath had unwittingly doomed Kallen and all the Trothans.

Malkom had already planned his own revenge. As he was neither noble nor good like Kallen, his retribution would be far more vicious than the prince could ever envision.

Without warning, a vampire traced into the room, teleporting directly onto the throne. Clad in costly silk robes, the male was pallid, his skin untouched by Oblivion's blistering sun. His eyes were wholly red, his visage twisted by madness.

The Viceroy.

When the vampires had conquered Oblivion and turned it into a colony, they'd dispatched the Viceroy, their most malicious leader, to act as ruler of the plane.

"Ah, my two new prisoners," he said in Anglish.

Though Malkom and Kallen both were fluent in the language, they refused to speak anything other than their native Demonish--even as the use of that tongue was now punishable by death.

The vampire rubbed his narrow, clean-shaven chin. "At last, you have both been captured."

Malkom and the prince were the leaders of the rebellion, and to break them would be to break the resistance. The vampire overlords had searched for them relentlessly.

When the Viceroy snapped his fingers, the two slaves exited the room, returning moments later with an unconscious demon boy. One of their own, handed over for a vampire's refreshment. A leisurely repast.

Malkom started sweating. He strained even harder...

England, 1804

"Move your bleedin' arse," Miss Charlotte Spenser's maid, Meggie, said to her.

"Isn't that a little too graphic?" Miss Spenser inquired. "I have visions…"

"Don't think about it. Just say it."

"Move your bleeding arse," Charlotte said in the polite tones of a well-bred female.

"Bleedin'."

"Bleedin'," she repeated dutifully. "So let me get this straight. Bloody hell, move your bleedin' arse, that's a pile of shit, or shite if I happen to be in Ireland, and," she swallowed, "fuck you. Do I really say that?"

"If you want to. You 'ave to be really mad to say it, and you might get backhanded by your man if you do, but sometimes it's worth it."

"Backhanded?"

"Slapped. With the back of the hand, which hurts more, 'cause of knuckles and rings and such like."

Charlotte looked at her maid curiously. "Did your husband ever do that?"

"Oh, that and far worse. Too bad he took a tumble out that window when he was too drunk to know what he was doing," she said, cheerfully callous. "It'll be a cold day in hell before I ever let a man near me again. They're untrustworthy bastards. Try that one."

"Bastards," Charlotte said, liking the taste of it on her tongue. "Bloody bastard. Bleeding bastard arse."

"No, Miss Charlotte. It has to make sense in English. Arses aren't bastards."

"True. Arses and bastards are nouns, bloody and bleeding are adjectives. Do you say fucking as well? "

"Oh, most definitely."

"Splendid," said Miss Charlotte Spenser. "I'll practice." And they continued down the sidewalk, maid and mistress in perfect accord.

They had just attended the weekly meeting of the Richmond Hill Bluestockings and Viragos, a most enlightening afternoon during which Meggie had proceeded to instruct the highborn members how to curse. Charlotte, to her dismay, had been an utter failure, but she was improving with private instruction.

As she climbed the steep marble stairs to Whitmore House, the door was flung open and she was presented with a scarcely controlled chaos. Servants were rushing to and fro, carrying baskets of flowers and gilt chairs and great silver platters. Her cousin Evangelina was throwing a ball, and Charlotte had forgotten about it entirely.

"Drat," she muttered to Meggie. "My cousin is entertaining tonight."

"Try for 'bloody hell,'" Meggie suggested helpfully. "And her's not just entertaining," she added darkly. "Her's got two hundred people coming tonight or I miss my guess."

"She's," Charlotte corrected automatically. "Bloody hell."

Meggie laughed. "Not fierce enough, Miss Charlotte. You need to practice if you want to sound like you mean it." She started toward the side alley that led to the servants' entrance, but Charlotte didn't make any attempt to stop her. She'd learned her democratic ideals were not appreciated by everyone. Charlotte was an egalitarian, and she'd plucked Meggie from the slums, determined to save her. In the beginning Meggie had flatly refused to be saved, but for the last two years she'd become Charlotte's trusted companion. Meggie, fresh from her life as a fallen woman, flat out refused to enter by the front door, even though, as Charlotte's maid, it was perfectly acceptable, and the one time Charlotte tried to join her and the army of servants belowstairs for a cup of tea the atmosphere had been excruciatingly uncomfortable. Charlotte had learned, to her sorrow, that there was no one more snobbish than a British domestic servant, and her lack of welcome was glaringly obvious. She hadn't attempted it again.

She sighed. She would have so much rather have sat and had a cup of tea and a biscuit, her feet up before the fire in the servants' gathering room, than wind her way through the back stairs to the upper floors of Whitmore House, but she had no choice. She nodded as she passed the footmen draping garlands of fresh spring flowers over the massive doorway, handed her hat, pelisse and gloves to the maid who was waiting. Hetty, her name was, and she bobbed a curtsy, eyeing her nervously, as if afraid of an unwelcome gesture of friendship.

But Charlotte had learned her lesson. "Where is Lady Whitmore?" she inquired in a cool, distant voice.

"In her dressing room, Miss Spenser," Hetty said. "She left word that you were to come to her as soon as you returned home."

Charlotte didn't bother to hide her grimace. "Any idea why?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say, miss."

"No, of course you couldn't," Charlotte said with a genteel snort, heading for the stairs. She tried to will a wan expression into her face, wrinkling her forehead in a semblance of pain, opening her eyes wide. She was a terrible liar, and Lina would most likely see through her immediately, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

Evangelina, dowager countess of Whitmore, was sitting at her dressing table, regarding her reflection in the mirror as Louise, her French maid, fussed with her hair. Clearly her countenance failed to please her, a fact which Charlotte could only find extraordinary. Evangelina was widely renowned to be one of the most beautiful women in England, from her glossy black curls to her vivid blue eyes with just the tinge of violet, her creamy skin, delicate nose and smiling, sensuous mouth. She'd never seen a freckle in her life, Charlotte thought dangerously. She was tiny, delicate, exquisite and two years younger than Charlotte's thirty. She was staring at her reflection the way Charlotte usually surveyed her own.

"I am looking positively haggard," she greeted Charlotte in a disconsolate voice. "Why is it, whenever I throw a party I end up looking fagged to death?"

"You look gorgeous," Charlotte said briskly, then remembered her plan. "I only wish I felt well enough to join you," she added in a more plaintive voice.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Lina said, turning to glare at her, much to her hairdresser's distress. "You aren't crying off at the last minute on some trumped-up illness. That only works the first three times. I need you with me."

"You aren't going to even notice whether I'm there or not," Charlotte said, sitting down at the end of her cousin's bed, her reflection appearing beside Lina's in the mirror.

She'd long accepted her very ordinary appearance, but seeing it side by side with Lina's beauty couldn't help but be lowering.

Charlotte had no delusions about her shortcomings. She was too tall—at a good six feet she towered over most men. She had awful ginger hair and freckles, she had an over-abundance of bosom, and to top everything off she was shortsighted enough that she needed to wear glasses when she read.

As if these biological indignities weren't enough, she was also poor, unmarried and too smart for her own good, as most gentlemen, including her father, were wont to tell her. Women were supposed to be short and pretty and never dare contradict a man, even if he was spouting utter nonsense. And if they were troubled by shortsightedness, they could damn well get through the season by recognizing people's voices. Who needed to read? Or so her late father had told her.

It was halfway through the miserable year of her coming out that she had put her gold-rimmed glasses firmly on her nose—another point against her, it tending toward the aquiline rather than the more popular snub—refused the milk treatments that were supposed to make her freckles fade, but which only left her smelling faintly of sour milk, and decided to be an old maid. The glasses weren't necessary, but they went well with her acquired scowl, and she wore them everywhere, even when they gave her a headache.

In truth, becoming an old maid had been decided for her during the first disastrous months out, but her stern father had still harbored hope. Until she put on her glasses and trampled on her dance partners, making her an object to be feared.

There had been no second season.

"Of course I'll notice," Lina said. "At least, for the first half hour," she added with her usual honesty, the honesty she kept for Charlotte and few others. "Besides, if you're not there backing me up how can I possibly indulge in a little discreet flirtation with Viscount Rohan?"

Charlotte ignored the iciness in the pit of her stomach. "You could wait for a better time," she suggested. "For instance, next week, at the gathering at Hensley Court."

"Ah, but by then he'll doubtless have discovered some other sweet thing to entrance him. And I'm quite determined to have him. He's gorgeous, he's delightfully wicked and he's rumored to be the very devil in bed," she added with a convincingly lascivious sigh.

"I'm sure he is," Charlotte said, moving away, not even blinking. "However, the amatory prowess of my lord Rohan is of no possible interest to me."

Lina settled back, letting her dresser once more attack the artful array of curls. "You're such a stick-in-the-mud, Charlotte." She sighed. "You really don't know what you're missing. I'm enjoying my widowhood immensely."

Charlotte had her doubts about that, but she wisely said nothing. When her favorite cousin had begged her to come live with her once her horrendous elderly husband died, she'd accepted gratefully. She'd been an only child of distant parents, and their deaths had left her penniless and, if it weren't for Lina, friendless.

Even if the choices open to a poor relation weren't many, sharing a house with Evangelina had been Charlotte's idea of heaven. The only problem had been Lina's feverish gaiety: about as genuine as Charlotte's professed lack of interest in Viscount Rohan. But she wasn't going to think about that.

"I much prefer it that way," Charlotte said, hoping she didn't sound unbearably prim. "Half an hour, standing quietly in the background while you greet your guests, and then I'm off."

"Make it an hour," Lina pleaded. "Rohan might prove difficult. It's always possible I'll need you to help direct him."

Charlotte froze. Horror was too mild a word for the emotion that suffused her. "I'm not going anywhere near Viscount Rohan."

Lina batted at Louise's hands and turned to look at her. "Why not?" Her voice was sharp. "I wasn't aware that you were even acquainted with him. Has he done something to offend you?"

"Apart from his appalling lack of moral fortitude?" Charlotte said icily. "No. I've only spoken with Viscount Rohan once in my life, and I've never been alone in his presence, thank heavens." This time she allowed her voice to be as prim as possible, filled with disapproval. Because if Lina guessed the truth it would be unbearable.

"Thank heavens," Lina echoed. "Then why won't you…?"

"I'd rather keep my distance."

Lina shrugged, turning back to face her reflection, and Louise returned to her work, muttering French imprecations beneath her breath. "Suit yourself. If you've taken him in aversion then I'm certain one of my friends will help. I just can't be certain they wouldn't take him for themselves." She made a moue of distress.

"From what I've heard of Viscount Rohan, he's probably had them already."

Lina's laugh was low and earthy. "Most probably. If he hadn't spent the last year on the continent he would have had me. Ah, well, if not tonight, then most definitely at the gathering. I absolutely cannot wait! The Heavenly Host, in all their wicked glory!"

The familiar knot in her stomach tightened. "Nor can I," she said, secure in the knowledge that her cousin's dresser wouldn't understand.

Lina looked up at Charlotte for a long moment. "Are you certain this is the wisest choice, darling?" she said finally. "I'm all for broadening your education, but going from sheltered spinsterhood to a gathering of the Heavenly Host is rather like moving from St. James Palace to the stews of London. I do admire your scientific mind and interest in observing the baser instincts of mankind, but perhaps that might be going a bit too far. You might wish to start a little more slowly."

The fact that Charlotte wanted to agree with her made her even more forceful. She wasn't going to turn craven at this late date. "I understand the basics of animal husbandry and fornication, Lina. I've lived in the country for a great part of my life, and there are no mysteries there. But if I'm intending to spend my life in celibate comfort I wish to observe exactly what it is that you tell me I'm missing. Besides, I have a certain scientific curiosity. The practices I've heard mentioned seem either unsanitary or anatomically impossible, and I'm interested to see just how one manages it."

From the book

Chapter One

"You realize that the purpose of terrorism is theater," Tobias Strahan said to the Clan leaders. "It's not so much what our enemies have done to hurt us that they care about, but how we react to it that they're counting on."

Francesca Reynard smiled at the Prime's superior tone. She wondered if the Matri Council was going to let him get away with lecturing them or if the commander of the Dark Angels was about to get his ears boxed. She waited in the council room to see what would happen next. She wasn't supposed to be there and this wasn't a conversation she was supposed to hear. A small rebellion, but she'd take any kind she could get.

Petty, aren't you?

The telepathic voice in her head was Strahan's, speaking even more arrogantly to her than he had to the respected Clan leaders.

Primes were supposed to be arrogant, and she normally found them easy to ignore.

But not this one.

It's a hobby, she thought back at him.

Along with petulance and pride, but then everyone knows Flare Reynard's hobbies.

She'd learned to accept the nickname and had earned the reputation that went with it. I am reputed to be bitchy, she pointed out, then raised the mental shields that kept polite vampires out of each other's heads.

She saw the faintest of shrugs from him. Though she could ignore his mind, she was female, so she couldn't help but run her gaze appreciatively over the fine figure of an overgrown Prime that he was. He certainly was a big boy. Big hands, big feet, very tall. Muscular, with a tight ass and narrow waist in perfect proportion to his extra-wide shoulders. He was considered the best-looking Prime of his generation, but she liked that the perfection was slightly marred by ears that stuck out a little from a back view.

The Matris bridled and glared at the Prime; most were as offended as he'd intended for them to be.

But Lady Juanita Wolf laughed. "We've been involved in deadly games with the hunters for generations," she reminded Strahan.

"But they've never publicly attacked us before," Lady Anjelica Reynard said. "Never set us up to be found out by the media."

Strahan nodded. "We can't afford to react in the classic manner. They're counting on that. They want to post videos of your people on YouTube, to get news crews camped outside your homes. Because outing us is the best way to destroy us."

"I can almost understand mortal vampire hunters attacking like this," Lady Cassandra Crowe said. "But you haven't convinced me that one of our own is a traitor, that information is being passed from inside our own community. There is absolutely no reason."

"I think I know the reasons," Strahan said.

"We've heard enough on the subject already," Lady Serisa Shagal said firmly.

Los Angeles was Shagal territory, this was her Citadel, and she felt that the defense against the threat to her Clan should be hers to handle. But she had agreed to Strahan's demand to cede emergency powers to the Dark Angels since the attacks were on all supernatural groups, not just Clan vampires. There had been arson and bombings committed against vampires and werefolk all over Southern California, including trouble at the medical clinic here in Los Angeles. The Angels were a multispecies special forces group who answered only to Strahan, who had formed his unit in anticipation of these sorts of attacks.

Francesca admired his confidence in the face of so many Clan...

Paris, 1768

The visit with the lawyer had not gone well. Elinor Harriman arrived home just as her sister, Lydia, had finished dealing with their landlord, and she ducked out of sight so the old lecher wouldn't see her. Monsieur Picot had no patience for either her or her mother, but her baby sister was a different matter. All Lydia had to do was let tears fill her limpid blue eyes and make her Cupid's bow mouth tremble and M. Picot was destroyed, awash with apologies and assurances. He didn't realize he was being played until the door was firmly closed behind him and Elinor could sneak up the stairs, grateful that she hadn't had to defend Lydia's honor if M. Picot got carried away. He never did. None of the landlords and butchers and greengrocers ever took advantage of Lydia's delicate beauty. She radiated such an exquisite innocence that no one would dare. Even in this less than felicitous area of town, no one would even think of offering her an insult.

"Told you," Lydia said with an impish grin far removed from her Madonna smile. "It works every time."

Elinor flopped into the nearest chair, letting out a groan as an errant spring poked her backside. During their last enforced move they'd had to relinquish all but their most wretched of furniture. The tiny parlor on the edge of one of the least savory neighborhoods in Paris held three chairs and a meager table that served as a desk, a dining surface and a dressing table, and the chairs were barely functional. The bedrooms were as bad. One sagging bed in the first room held their mother's snoring body, in the other there was only a shared mattress on the hard floor. She refused to think about how Nanny Maude or Jacobs the coachman slept in the back area that served as kitchen and servants' quarters.

And how absurd it was to have a coachman when it had been years since they'd even had a horse, much less a coach. Not since their very first days in Paris, when their mother had been in love and the two sisters had reveled in their new adventure. But Jacobs had come with them from England, under Lady Caroline's spell as most men were, and nothing, not even a total lack of wages, could induce him to leave.

The lover and the money had disappeared quickly, to be replaced by someone almost as wealthy. In the last ten years Lady Caroline Harriman had been working her way down to a state Elinor couldn't bear to consider. At least right now her mother was too ill to cause trouble, to go looking for another bottle of blue ruin, another game of chance, another man to finance her more important needs, which had never included her daughters.

"So how much time have we got?" she asked, reaching for her knitting. She was a wretched knitter—her handwork was atrocious but she convinced herself she could do something useful, even if her socks and vests were full of dropped stitches. Nanny Maude had taught her, but as usual she was proving less than adept.

Lydia sighed. "He'll be back in a week, and I don't think I'll be able to put him off again." Sweet Lydia was perfect in every way, pretty and darling and clever, and her handwork was flawless. She could dance perfectly with only the cursory lessons their mother had once paid for, she could paint a pretty picture, sing like a bird, and any man who met her became her willing slave, from Jacobs, their elderly manservant, to the wealthy young Vicomte de Miraboux whom she'd met at the lending library. For a brief time Elinor had hoped their problems were solved, until the Vicomte's family caught wind of what was going on and the Vicomte had been swept away on...

CHAPTER ONE

The man above Marissa York groaned loudly, his breath shuddering over her cheek. She turned her head and frowned at the wall as the room spun slowly around her. Goodness. This wasn’t going well at all. Thankfully, it seemed it was nearly over.

After an endless summer of pretending to look for a husband in London, Marissa had thought to treat herself to a night of forbidden pleasure. It was her family’s first house party of the hunting season, after all. Everyone else was having a rollicking good time, and Marissa had thought to find some fun too. But instead she’d found clumsy fumbling, not to mention a bit of discomfort and lots of grunting. Perhaps this was why girls were ordered to keep themselves pure for marriage. No matter how unfortunate the consummation, there was no turning back afterward.

“My love,” Peter White sighed into her ear. “My sweet, sweet Marissa. That was beautiful. Perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Oh, yes.”

She stretched her neck, trying to ease the strain on her back. “Um, could you please... arise?”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” He pushed up to his elbows. Unfortunately, though this eased the weight on her chest, it pushed his bottom half more thoroughly against her. Everything down there felt rather... squishy.

“Mr. White, please? Get up?”

He gave her a sly grin. “Don’t you feel silly calling me Mr. White right now?”

“No.”

“When we are married, I hope you will call me by my Christian name, at least in--“

“Pardon?”

He leaned down to press a kiss to her nose. Marissa wiped it away.

“I’ll speak to your brother tomorrow,” he purred.

“You will do no such thing! Now get off. It’s taking you more time to dismount than you spent riding.”

Finally, the stubborn fool seemed to sense that she wasn’t limp with gratitude at his rutting. He drew back, squishing even more firmly into her.

“Oh, just get off me, you great dolt!” she cried.

He gasped, “Marissa!” and stared, shocked horror clear on his face, even in the dim moonlight that slanted through the drapes..

And that was when she heard the footsteps in the hall. Her eyes went wide. She pushed at his chest. And the door opened. Marissa held her breath. It was dark. The light from the hallway might not have reached them. If they just kept quiet...

Peter White cleared his throat. “If you would close the door, please. We require privacy.”

Before her shock could twist into anger, the figure in the door shifted. “Pardon me?” Her brother’s voice.

Oh, no. Not her brother.

The door flew fully open, and Marissa had to squint against the light from the hall, so she could only assume they were now visible. Her heart sunk down to rest on her spine. “No,” she breathed.

“Marissa Anne York!” her brother bellowed. Then the shadow of his head shifted and he lunged for the man atop her.

Mr. White was finally off her, but she could hardly summon a feeling of thankfulness. The shadows of the two men merged into one large beast that lurched into the darkest corner of the room. Vases shattered. A table crashed into the wall.

“Stop!” Marissa screamed, hoping her shout would put an end to the fight and stop time as well. If she could only go back to a half hour earlier when she’d finished that last glass of wine and then let Mr. White coax her into this room...

Tempted to jump up from the sofa and sprint to her chambers, Marissa instead chose the more daunting path. She tugged her skirts down and pushed unsteadily to her feet to face her brother. “Edward! Stop. Please.”

“You foul bastard,” her brother’s voice huffed.

A loud thump of flesh on flesh made Marissa flinch. The chaos ceased, and suddenly only the sound of the two men panting emerged from the dark. She could do nothing but stand there and shake.

“Edward?” she breathed.

Broken glass shifted against the wood floor. One of the shadows rose up and started toward her. Marissa backed away, afraid of her brother, only because she couldn’t see him. He would never hurt her, no matter what she did. But he looked like a goblin coming at her from the dark.

Or perhaps it was Mr. White, and her brother lay unconscious on the floor. “Edward?”

The shadow shifted at the last moment, her brother’s snarling face finally coming into the light, and he moved past her. Glass rattled. A match struck.

Light swelled slowly over the room. When it reached the farthest corner, she saw that Mr. White wasn’t unconscious at all, but sitting up with a hand pressed to his eye. At the sight of him, Marissa had to tamp down an urge to fly at his face and do further damage. Easier to be furious with him than with herself.

A shadow cast itself from the hallway, and Marissa glanced up to see her Cousin Harry standing there.

“What in the world is all the ruckus?” Harry asked. Oh, this was only getting worse. How many others had heard?

“Marissa,” her brother said, that one word full of worry and hurt and confusion and fury.

She wrapped her arms around herself and turned slowly toward him. “I apologize.” Her voice was steady, just as she wanted it to be. “I did not mean for you to see that.”

“See it?” he barked.

A maid appeared at Harry’s side, her apron clutched in her hands.

“Harry,” Edward said carefully. “Please wait for me in the study. And close the door.”

This situation would have to be handled very carefully. Her family was not known for coolness or rationality. Impetuousness flowed in their veins like blood, and she’d clearly gotten her own share of it. But now she’d need to chose her words carefully. “Edward. I’m sorry. Obviously, I acted as... I was not--“ She was interrupted by the worst possible statement.

“We shall marry immediately,” Mr. White said.

Her brother was already nodding.

Marissa shook her head to counter him. “We most certainly will not. I have no intention of marrying Mr. White. None at all.”...

# # #

“Did I thank you yet for the invitation?” Jude Bertrand asked half-jokingly as he followed Aidan York down the curved staircase.

Aidan tossed a sardonic glance over his shoulder and said nothing.

Jude had, in fact, thanked him several times already. For some reason, being on the York estate filled Jude with buoyancy. The house was large and airy, the windows looking out onto wild meadows and swaths of forest. The land enchanted him, and the family... Well, oddly enough, the family reminded him of his early childhood. Decidedly strange, as his early years had been spent in what had essentially been a French whorehouse.

Smiling at the odd comparison, Jude ran his hand down the banister, remembering his stay here last year and a certain strawberry-haired hoyden’s slide down the wood. She’d thought no one else awake at that early hour, and Jude hadn’t disabused her of the notion. He’d simply watched her slide down the banister and then he’d continued on his way, marveling that no one else seemed able to see the wildness inside her.

He was greatly anticipating seeing her again.

When they reached the first floor, Aidan York nodded to a few of the guests, but continued on toward his brother’s study. Jude followed. The door was closed when they reached it, and raised voices could be heard vibrating through the wood, but Jude felt no surprise. The York family was surprisingly dramatic for such an established peerage.

Aidan didn’t seem surprised either. He simply gave a perfunctory knock and walked into chaos.

The dowager baroness had draped herself across the settee and was weeping loudly into a lace handkerchief. The baron, Aidan’s older brother, paced in front of the fireplace, his red face giving him away as the source of the shouting. A cousin was there too. Harry, maybe? He looked decidedly morose.

Jude raised a hand in greeting to the mob.

“Aidan,” said Edward. “Thank God you’re here!” Then his gaze shifted to Jude. “Jude, you can’t be here. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. All right then.” He had spun halfway back toward the hall when Aidan’s hand stopped him.

“Don’t be melodramatic, Edward.” His dry voice was a direct contrast to his brother’s. “Of course Jude can stay. Now, what seems to be the latest crisis?”

Edward shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is serious. And a very private matter.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the upstairs maid?”

The baroness finally roused herself. “Aidan! Don’t be disrespectful.” She cocked her head toward Jude, and he offered her a small bow while she studied him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bertrand, but you’ll have to...” She stopped and frowned. “Then again, perhaps Mr. Bertrand could be of use to us. He does bring a certain... perspective.”

Jude raised his eyebrows at that, wondering what she could mean.

“Yes!” the cousin exclaimed. “His mother!”

Ah. Jude nodded. His mother. Had Edward gotten a mistress pregnant? “If I can assist you in some way, I’d be happy to. And I was raised from the cradle not to tell tales, of course.”

But Edward was shaking his head. “The matter is too sensitive.” He tossed a glare in his mother’s direction. “As you all know.”

Aidan rolled his eyes and crossed the room to the brandy decanter. “This is ridiculous. I’d trust Jude with my life. If he can help you, just spit it out, old man.” He collapsed into a chair, so Jude wandered toward the sidebar and poured himself a drink as well. He should have left, perhaps, but he was more than a little curious now.

He supposed Edward’s whisper was meant to be discreet, but it easily filled the whole room. “It’s about our sister!” he hissed.

Jude froze and spun back to face the York family. “Marissa?” he asked.

All eyes turned toward him. ...

Drawing a breath, Adam Gresham stroked a hand along Mallory’s arm, and met her sorrowful, sea-colored gaze. “I can tell you without hesitation that Michael Hargreaves wouldn’t want you to be sad either. He would want you to live and have a happy life. He’s found his own peace. Give yourself the right to find yours.”

Mallory trembled, something shattering on her face. “But I’m afraid I’ll forget him,” she confessed on a whisper, as more tears slid free. “We had such a short time together before he was sent away to fight. I worry if I go back to my old life that it will be as if he never existed. As if I’ve abandoned him somehow.”

Adam curved an arm around her back and drew her close. “You haven’t abandoned him and you will never forget. You loved him. Real love never fades.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hand and offered what comfort he could, as she buried her face against his chest and cried.

He didn’t speak as he held her, fighting the jealousy that twisted inside him while she sobbed out her love and grief for another man. It was an emotion unworthy of him and one he knew he should not feel. Still, he wasn’t a saint, far from it. He was only human, only a man. And despite his best efforts to be noble and self-sacrificing, a small, selfish part of him couldn’t help but resent the hold Hargreaves had on Mallory––even from beyond the grave.

At length, her tears ceased, her sobs turning to shaky inhalations and weary sighs, as she leaned against him. Using the damp silk handkerchief she held balled up inside her fist, she blew her nose and blotted her tearstained eyes.

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a fresh handkerchief. “Here, have another.”

She drew a hiccupping breath, and tried, but didn’t quite manage to smile. “You’re right, I have rather used this first one up, haven’t I?” Accepting the second square of white silk, she pressed the dry cloth to her eyes and cheeks and nose, pausing at his gentle urging to give “one more good blow” despite the inelegance of such behavior.

But he and Mallory had known each other for far too many years to stand on formality at this point. If they had, she would never have cried in his arms today at all, he realized.

“Gracious,” she declared, straightening slightly inside his embrace. “I must look a sight.”

But she didn’t, she looked beautiful, he thought. Her lashes framed her luminous aquamarine eyes in dark, spiky rings, while her cheeks were burnished as red as a crisp fall apple. As for her lips, they were swollen from her crying––plump and full and lusciously moist.

Sweet as candy, he thought. And every bit as delicious, he was sure.

“No,” he murmured in answer to her query. “You look lovely as always.” Then, before he even knew what he was doing, he bent and touched his mouth to hers, desperate for a taste, however brief it might be.

But a taste couldn’t begin to be enough, yearning roaring to life inside him, burning in his veins as blood beat between his temples and pooled lower in his belly and between his thighs.

She gave a clearly startled whimper, but didn’t try to push him away. If she had, perhaps he would have stopped. Instead, desire urged him on, encouraging him to take more. He’d waited years to hold her like this and kiss her. He’d dreamt countless times of how her lips would feel against his and the way her small, supple body would curve into his own much taller one. Yet his imagination was as insipid as water to wine when compared with reality––the sensations, scents, and flavors more divine than anything his mind could create.

Mallory, my love, he whispered in his head, as he gave in to what he craved and deepened the kiss. Parting her mouth, he claimed her with a long, slow, sultry ease that was just this side of heaven.

She whimpered again, this time with confused hesitation, the relative inexperience of her touch impressing itself upon him as nothing else could have done. She might have been kissed before, he realized, but she was still a novice when it came to sex and the sensual arts. He, on the other hand, was experienced––extremely experienced––with a knowledge of things that would have set her blushing from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Compared to him, Mallory was a dewy-eyed lamb wandering unaware in a peaceful meadow, while he was the hungry, ravening wolf lying in wait just over the nearest rise.

Suddenly aware of exactly what he was doing, he broke their kiss. She swayed slightly in his grasp, her eyes closed as breath puffed in tiny gusts from her mouth.

“Oh,” she sighed.

“Oh” didn’t begin to describe it. 

Taking a step back, he made sure she was steady on her feet, then he let her go.

Her eyes popped open and immediately fixed on his. “W-what was that?”

Rather than responding, he lifted a brow, schooling his features into a calmness that hid the violent need still coursing through his body.

“I-I mean I know what it was,” she went on in a breathless voice that made shivers run down his spine. “But why? Why did you k-kiss me?”

She looked utterly and completely bewildered.

“Because, my sweet,” he drawled in a smooth tone, “you looked as if you needed to be.”
 
***

Mallory stared, her heart racing frantically in her chest.

Stars and garters, she thought, Adam just kissed me. And not a peck either but a full-blown, passionate claiming that was unlike any kiss she’d ever had before. Even Michael had never kissed her like that and he’d been her fiancé.

She paused suddenly at the thought of Michael, yet she was so dazed, so mesmerized, that the usual melancholy she felt when she thought of him didn’t appear. All she could do was stand there, her entire body tingling with heat and pleasure.

For years, she’d been aware of the rumors about Adam’s prowess and reports of all the women who secretly––and not so secretly––clamored to share his bed. Once at a party in London, she’d accidentally overheard a pair of women––one a widow and another who wished she were––comparing a list of their lovers. None of them, the widow told her friend, came close to the ecstasy she’d found in Adam Gresham’s arms. Then she’d gone on to bemoan the fact that she’d only been with him once and that despite her best efforts to win him back, he wasn’t interested.

Apparently, Adam had a habit of never staying with any one woman for long, his elusive behavior seeming only to enhance his already formidable appeal among the fairer sex. And now that she’d experienced his kiss, she could see that his reputation for pleasuring women was in no way an exaggeration. Fully two minutes had passed since he’d ended their own kiss and she was still worried the top of her head might blow off, her riding hat along with it.
 
“Are you hungry?” he inquired, jarring her out of her musings.
“I had Cook pack us a little something again just in case.”

Hungry? How could he possibly think of food at a moment like this? Then she recalled why he said he’d kissed her.

Because, sweetheart, you looked as if you needed to be.

So it had been a sympathy kiss, had it? His embrace driven not out of any real sense of desire for her, but rather from a need to distract and cheer her.

What a lowering realization.

And yet, she knew he’d meant it in a kindly way and was only acting as her friend. Obviously, he was willing to do whatever it might take to rally her spirits, even if that might require shocking her out of her gloom with an unexpected embrace.

One that had clearly dazzled her more than Adam.

All she had to do was look at him to confirm that fact, since he seemed his usual calm, sophisticated self, unruffled and apparently unaffected as well. Considering all the women he must have kissed in his two-and-thirty years, why should she be surprised? She was just one among many, she supposed, memorable only by virtue of the fact that she was his long-time friend.

No wonder he was so unfazed.

For all she knew, maybe he hadn’t enjoyed their kiss at all. And if that were true, what must his touch be like when he really wanted a woman?
Her brows drew into a frown.

Adam cocked his head. “Shall we stay and eat or would you rather ride home?”

A mere half an hour ago, she would have opted to ride straight home. But a strange restfulness seemed to have invaded her system, along with a sense of shared understanding. Adam knew what it was to grieve. He’d experienced loss and come out the other side. As for his rather high-handed kiss, she supposed she couldn’t hold it against him, not when she knew his intentions had been good.

Besides, she’d left the house again this morning without eating breakfast and quite suddenly she realized she was starving.

“A light meal wouldn’t go amiss,” she admitted. “But don’t think we’re going to make a habit of riding together and sharing a meal in this spot every morning.”

“Of course not,” he said solemnly. Then he ruined the effect by smiling, his face so handsome her breath caught at the sight.

It’s only the kiss, she told herself, and she would forget it in a trice. She and Adam were friends, no more, no less, and he was only devoting himself to her at present because of that friendship.

For now she would let herself take advantage of his kindness and hope it helped her heal. Beyond that, she didn’t know. She would deal with each day as it came and care naught for the future.