Lampeter, Wales, spring 1220

The swirl of wind was steady, yet not too strong. The light mist of rain that had been falling for the past week had finally stopped, but even at this early hour of the morning the clouds hung dark, low, and heavy. Thirteen-year-old Bethan of Lampeter stood on the highest rampart on the south edge of the timber castle, her mother at her side, her eyes pinned to the scene below.

The view down to the fortified bailey was unobstructed and Bethan watched with growing puzzlement as her stepfather, Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, walked among the hundreds of prisoners, barking out orders and separating them into groupings.

“Whatever is he doing?” Bethan questioned, leaning forward to get a closer look.

“I suppose he is arranging them into new squads of workers,” her mother speculated. She pulled the windblown veil away from her face and tucked a lock of honey-colored hair beneath it. “He told me yesterday the foundation of the new castle has finally been completed, so the stones must be moved in order to begin construction on the lower half.”

“All he thinks about is building his wretched castle,” Bethan grumbled. She looked beyond the wall that surrounded the village and the dwellings protected within those walls to the acres of cleared land stretching between the forest and the manor. “A portion of those men should be working the soil. We are already weeks behind. The fields need to be plowed and planted now or else we shall all go hungry this winter.”

“There are some furrows awaiting seed,” her mother replied, pointing to a small section where mounds of dirt sported neatly dug rows.

“’Tis a pittance,” Bethan countered. “I see but one oxen straining mightily to pull a single plow and less than a dozen villeins toiling behind. If this does not change soon, we shall once again be racing against time and weather to harvest whatever meager crops reach maturity.”

“Goodness, Bethan, such gloomy thoughts. When I was a girl of your age I thought only of my needlework, my prayers, and my future husband.”

“I have not that luxury, Mother,” Bethan replied with honesty. “Nor would I wish for it. I want only to see our people safe and prosperous.”

“As do I,” her mother whispered, a tremble of emotion in her words.

Guilt instantly washed over Bethan and she silently cursed her wicked tongue. She had not meant her remarks as a criticism. She knew there were many within the walls of Lampeter who blamed her mother for inflicting de Bellemare and his iron-fisted rule upon them all. Life, while never easy in this harsh, rugged climate and wild countryside of Wales, had been good for nearly everyone when Bethan’s father had been alive.

To the surprise of many, within days of her husband’s death Lady Caryn had married Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, a man who spoke the Norman French of England’s noble class, yet fought with the ferocity of his Viking given name. For the past three years, discord, discontent, and fear were the predominate emotions among those who lived within these walls.

The soldiers, tradesmen, even some of the peasants thought Lady Caryn a weak female, frail in figure, spirit, and mind. In their eyes she did little to stop her husband from his often abusive behavior toward them.

But others knew the truth, including Bethan. Lady Caryn had no choice in the matter. If she had not accepted de Bellemare he would have laid siege to the castle and taken it by force. Many would have died; all would have suffered horribly.

“Come, Mother. Let us walk out to the fields and see what crops are being sowed today. The fresh air will do you good.”

Taking hold of her mother’s arm, Bethan led her slowly down the winding staircase. Lady Caryn’s thin frame seemed more frail and fragile this morning, the burden of her swollen belly almost too much for her to carry. The constant sickness she had experienced since first quickening with child had weakened her previously strong constitution. Each day she seemed to wilt more and more.

Bethan worried about her mother, resenting this unborn child for myriad reasons. The very last thing she wanted was a blood tie to a whelp of de Bellemare. Still, Bethan was astute enough to realize there were times when it was only the promise of the child her mother carried within her body that kept them safe from the worst of her stepfather’s wrath. The knight had made no secret of his desire to have a son and heir, regardless of the toll it took upon his wife’s health.

When Lady Caryn had miscarried two other infants, de Bellemare’s anger had been felt throughout the castle, but he saved the majority of his displeasure for his wife. Though she never spoke of it, Bethan knew her mother feared what would happen if she could not successfully deliver the son her husband demanded.

As they strode through the large wooden front doors of the keep, Bethan saw her stepfather heading in their direction, the captain of the garrison at his side. She quickly steered her mother out of his line of view, hoping to escape an encounter.

Unfortunately, de Bellemare stopped before entering the keep. Bethan braced herself for his comments, but he apparently did not take notice of them, for he turned his back and spoke directly to the captain.

“Kill them,” he commanded in a deep, emotionless tone. “Start with the group on the left and finish with those I have placed in the center. I want them all dead and buried by tonight.”

“But my lord, we need these men to move the stones,” the captain protested.

“I culled out the larger men for that job. They will carry the stones and begin building. The rest can be eliminated.”

The captain frowned. “Moving the stones is an enormous task. All these men are needed.”

“If you need more workers, then press more of the villeins into service.”

The captain frowned. “We have already recruited every able-bodied man on the estate. There are none left who are strong enough to do the work. Grumblings have started among the people because there are no fit men to till the fields and plant the spring crops.”

“I do not give a damn about the peasants’ complaints!” De Bellemare dragged his hand through his hair and cursed loudly. “I will grant you this day to complete the moving of the stones. Tomorrow morning I want those men killed.”

The gasp of shock and horror that Bethan had struggled to contain burst forth and squealed from her throat. At the sound, the men turned toward her. The gleam of annoyance in de Bellemare’s eyes was unmistakable. The unsettling feeling prickling in Bethan’s belly deepened, but she did not lower her gaze.

She could not allow this to happen. She could not! Helplessly, Bethan cast her eyes beseechingly toward the captain of the guard, hoping for support, a voice of reason to state an objection. He cleared his throat, then lowered his eyes, avoiding her imploring gaze.

She next turned to her mother. Lady Caryn’s eyes were wide with distress, her hand lowered to hover protectively over her swollen belly. She licked her lips in obvious distress, yet remained silent.

“Please, my lord, I beg of you to show mercy. You cannot possibly kill all these men,” Bethan cried, fearing her protests would fall upon deaf ears, yet unable to stop herself. “’Tis unthinkable.”

“These men are prisoners, captured after I defeated them in battle,” de Bellemare snorted, clearly unfazed by her reaction. “Their fate is in my hands.”

“But they are innocent of any crime. You have no right to slaughter them.”

“Innocent? They are my enemies. They are your enemies. You would hardly call them innocent if they pulled you from your warm bed in the dead of night and raped you repeatedly before gutting you through with a knife from belly to neck, now, would you, little Bethan?”

Dismissively, he turned and stepped around her, stalking away. Fear and revulsion coiled in Bethan’s belly at the image of such a brutal act against her, yet she would not be deterred. True, warfare existed between the Welsh tribes. And those living along the border fought long and hard against the Normans and their English allies, defiantly resisting invasion. But even those captured warriors were not treated with the kind of savagery her stepfather intended.

Bethan had not missed the tension surrounding de Bellemare’s features, the annoyance at her interference. Common sense told her to let the matter drop. And yet her feet propelled her forward.

“Please, please, my lord, you must reconsider,” she begged. Racing ahead, she slumped to her knees in front of him. Tamping down the fear that rose to choke the breath from her lungs, she forced herself to confront him. “’Tis a grave sin to shed so much blood in such a fashion. I fear this atrocity will bring us all great suffering.”

“Thor save me from feebleminded women and their meddling ways,” de Bellemare growled.

Bethan ignored the mockery in his tone. Lifting her chin, she stared at his face, schooling herself not to react as his pale, soulless eyes pierced her own. Inexplicably she remembered the first time she had seen him. He had been sitting atop an enormous horse, leading his soldiers through the gates of Lampeter, a broad-shouldered knight with wind-tousled, overlong hair that gleamed as dark and glossy as the richest fur.

The women around her had sighed and giggled, exclaiming over his handsome face with its strong dark brow, blade-sharp cheeks, and stern jaw. But for some unknown reason the sight of him had sent a shiver of distress through her entire body.

“My father would never have ordered such a barbaric act.” Bethan spat the words at him without thinking, desperation clearly overtaking reason.

The light blue of de Bellemare’s eyes first flashed with astonishment, then darkened with anger. “Your father is no longer here to make these decisions. The last time I recall seeing him, he was lying on a battlefield in a puddle of his own blood, a lance planted squarely in the middle of his chest.”

Bethan remained perfectly still as she absorbed his goading comment. She thought herself used to his ever-growing cruelty, yet he so often proved he still possessed the power to wound. But she refused to allow him to see he had upset her. Instead of tears, she permitted the indignity she felt to flair within her.

How dare he speak so ill of her beloved father? De Bellemare was not fit to wipe his boots. She rose to her feet, squaring her shoulders in a pose of confidence she was far from feeling. “My father was a great warrior. He labored hard to keep this land, and his people, prosperous and safe, secure in times of trouble. He inspired love from his family and loyalty and admiration from his people. A feat few men can claim, especially you, my lord.”

At that instant lightning flashed and thunder cracked. The menace in de Bellemare’s eyes glowed red hot. She saw his gloved hand reach for the gleaming hilt of his sheathed broadsword and Bethan knew she had pushed him too far. Thinking he might strike her, she braced for the blow. But it never came.

She realized then that her mother had stepped forward, placing herself between them. Lady Caryn’s face was pale as whey, save for the dark patches beneath her eyes. “Forgive her wicked tongue, my lord. She is but a young, tenderhearted female who knows nothing of the ways of the world, understands nothing of the business of men. We all know ’tis you who keep us safe, you who provide us with all that we need, and we are all most grateful.”

“Your daughter’s opinion is of no consequence to me,” de Bellemare proclaimed, yet Bethan believed her barb had stung him more than he wanted to credit. “But her insolence is something I will not tolerate. If you know what is good for you both, keep her from my sight.”

His eyes burned into Bethan and she felt her knees begin to tremble. In anger, de Bellemare was a menacing expanse of muscle and ruthless power. Her breath quickened as she struggled to stay calm and expressionless, knowing her stepfather would take great amusement in her fear.

“You are needed on the practice field, my lord,” the captain of the guard interrupted.

Lord Bellemare grunted his acknowledgment of the message. Throwing her a final dark scowl, the knight turned and stormed away.

“Whoreson,” Bethan cursed under her breath, the moment he was beyond her hearing.

“Bethan!” Lady Caryn pulled frantically at her daughter’s arm, fearful her words might have carried on the wind. “Saints preserve us, would you anger him further? You put us all at grave risk with your wicked tongue.”

Bethan’s answer was an embarrassed silence. Her mother was right; ’twas sheer madness to provoke her stepfather, especially when his ire had already been pricked.

Hanging her head, Bethan meekly followed her mother. The rain had steadily increased, so it was no surprise Lady Caryn elected to go indoors. They retired to her mother’s solar, where Bethan diligently plied her needle to the small garments her mother was crafting in anticipation of the baby’s birth.

She later accompanied her mother uncomplainingly to evening Mass, where she prayed sincerely for forgiveness and guidance. She spoke not a word during the evening meal, taking her customary place on the dais beside Father William, the manor’s resident priest.

She tried all day to push the incident from her mind, yet as she lay in her bed that night, sleep would not come, for her mind would not rest. The fate of the condemned men weighed heavily on her conscience and as each hour passed the need to take some sort of action pressed against Bethan’s heart.

A few hours before dawn she made a decision. Dressing quickly in her warmest wool gown, Bethan stepped over the elderly maid who slept on the pallet in front of her bedchamber door and crept from the room. She met no one as she moved through the dark corridors, arriving quickly at her destination. Isolated from the rest of the castle, the small room where her father had gone over the estate accounts was no longer used, but the cupboard where he had stored a second set of keys remained.

Snatching what she needed, Bethan retraced her path, but instead of returning to her chamber she went down to the great hall. Moonlight crept in through the high windows and she blinked several times to adjust her eyes to the dimness.

Sleeping servants were stretched on pallets against the far wall, their even breaths telling her they were deep in slumber. After a careful scan of the room, Bethan was relieved to find no dogs among the prone forms, knowing they would never have allowed her to enter the room unchallenged.

With great care, she crept slowly along the outer edges of the great hall, her steps muffled by the clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Luck was on her side when she saw the young soldier guarding the door was dozing, his head lolling against the wall. Moving with as much stealth as she could muster, Bethan maneuvered around him and then slowly, carefully opened the heavy wooden door that led to the lower depths of the castle. Being a slender girl, she needed but a few inches of space to squeeze herself through.

After three attempts she was able to light the torch she had brought. Taking a deep breath, she quickly recited a simple prayer before descending into the castle depths.

Though she had hoped to do more, Bethan was well aware that it would be true folly indeed to attempt to release a great number of the condemned prisoners. Which was why she had chosen this path. It led to a small, isolated cell carved deeper underground that was sectioned off from the other dungeon.

Given the vast numbers of prisoners her stepfather had taken and now housed, it seemed likely this cell would be occupied. As she moved forward, the stench of unwashed bodies and damp earth suddenly filled her nose, letting her know her assumptions had been correct.

Heartened, Bethan pressed on, one hand holding the wall of solid earth on her left to keep her steady on her feet, the other hand raising her lit torch higher, illuminating the way. Thin snakes of smoke curled up from the flame gathering on the arched corridor of the shrinking ceiling, and she soon realized she would have to bow her head if it got any lower.

After a few minutes, she reached the bottom. Ten steps forward and she found what she had been seeking. A single cell with long iron bars stood in the damp corner of the small, nearly airless space. Inside the cell were six, perhaps eight men. The light from her torch caught their attention and slowly they turned to investigate.

The stillness in the air changed to something tense and dangerous. Bethan instinctively took a step back.

“My, my, what do we have here? Have you come to poke at the animals in the cage, little miss?” one of the men asked.

“Get close enough and I’ll give you a right proper poke,” another mocked, and several men grunted with lecherous amusement. “One you won’t soon forget.”

Bethan’s feet faltered. Her stepfather’s dire predictions of rape and murder echoed through her head as the nagging flaw in her plan crystalized in her mind. Freeing these men could very well place her own safety, her own life, in grave danger. She closed her eyes, fighting back the sickening queasiness in her stomach as the jeering grew louder, the comments cruder.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The sound of a commanding voice from the shadows instantly silenced the jeers. When it was quiet, the speaker stepped to the forefront, into the circle of firelight cast by her torch.

To her surprise, Bethan saw a man far younger than the rest of the prisoners, a lad probably only a few years older than herself. A handsome lad, with short dark hair, gray eyes, a jutting nose, and a strong jaw. It seemed impossible that he was their leader and yet he exuded an air of power and command that far exceeded his years.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I have come to help you escape,” Bethan proclaimed breathlessly.

Instead of the surprised excitement she expected, the men hooted with laughter. All except the younger one, the one who had posed the question. He was silent, watching her with studied interest, his gray eyes hooded, revealing nothing of his emotions.

“Why would you do such a thing, demoiselle?”

Bethan swallowed. As much as she wanted to reveal the truth, she worried at the men’s reaction if she told them they were to be executed in the morning. “Do you wish for your freedom, sir? Or shall I journey to the dungeons on the north side and find others who would be grateful for my assistance?”

“Is that what you seek? Gratitude?”

“No. I seek justice.”

“A strange quest for the daughter of de Bellemare,” the lad retorted.

“He is not my father!” Bethan’s face flushed with emotion.

“Aye, the lass speaks the truth,” one of the men concurred. “I heard the guards speak of how de Bellemare took this place a few years past without any bloodshed. He married the widowed Lady Caryn. The girl is too old to be his get.”

Those piercing gray eyes grew thoughtful. “So this is an act of revenge against your stepfather?”

Bethan shook her head vehemently, denying the charge, though inwardly she admitted there was some measure of truth in the question. She did want to strike back at de Bellemare, but she also felt a great need to try and prevent some of the senseless violence he seemed so intent on inflicting.

“Lampeter was a joyful place before Agnarr de Bellemare arrived. Releasing you is but a small attempt on my part to restore some of the dignity and honor my stepfather has stripped from us.”

The leader was silent, his face pensive. But the others were most vocal with their doubts and suspicions.

“’Tis a trap, I say! A trap! We shall all be gutted the moment we climb those stairs.” The prisoner who spoke, a large brute of a man with thickly muscled forearms, wiped his mouth, then gave Bethan an amused smirk. “We’d be fools to trust her.”

“Or fools to so easily scoff at her offer.” The leader looked at each of the men in turn, then returned his gaze to Bethan. “Agnarr de Bellemare does not need the excuse of escaping prisoners to kill us. He can order our deaths at any time.”

Bethan inwardly flinched, amazed at how he had correctly deciphered the truth. Though she willed herself to remain expressionless, she must have done something that revealed her true emotions. The leader’s expression changed, his voice grew urgent. He stood up, drew closer, his expression alert.

“Is that it, lass? Is he planning to kill us?”

“Aye. You and nearly a hundred others.”

The cell became very quiet. A few of the men seemed angry, others concerned, while one gave her a skeptical look. Yet to a man, they turned to the lad for guidance.

“What is your name, demoiselle?”

“I am Bethan of Lampeter.”

“And I am Haydn of Gwynedd.” He inclined his head in a gesture of courtly gallantry. “How can you aid us?”

Bethan’s fingers curled around the heavy iron key she had hidden in her pocket. Slowly she withdrew it, holding it out so the light spilling from her torch would illuminate it. “I have the key that will unlock your cell.”

There was a hiss of an indrawn breath, along with a whistle of excitement. The men began to press forward against the iron bars. Choking back the cry that lodged in her throat, Bethan dug her heels into the hard-packed dirt floor and stood her ground.

“How many guards are there aboveground?”

“There is but one soldier standing guard at the entrance to this passage.”

“One!” a man exclaimed. “We can easily overtake him.”

Bethan shook her head. “No. Once outside that door, you must pass through the great hall in order to exit the castle. ’Twas difficult enough for me to manage the task. With your numbers, you will never slip through undetected.”

“Then we will have to fight our way out. Can you get us some weapons, lass?” the largest man asked.

Bethan’s eyes widened in alarm, but before she could answer another of the men spoke. “Don’t be daft, man. Eight men against a garrison of de Bellemare’s soldiers? We’d be cut down before we reach the castle walls.”

A murmur of agreement went through the men. Bethan waited a moment, then spoke. “I know of another way out.”

Once again, her words produced an instant silence.

“Another way?” Haydn asked.

“There is another passage, one that leads to a trapdoor in the stables.”

“Then that is our route of escape,” Haydn declared. “Will you lead the way, Lady Bethan?”

She nodded. Bethan fumbled with the key, her hand shaking noticeably as she tried to fit it into the lock. Behind the bars, the men were pacing in the cell like beasts on a leash. With freedom so near, their agitation was palpable.

But palpable also was Bethan’s fear. Faced with the reality of the reckless act she was about to commit, she trembled with doubt. The men could easily attack or kill her once they were free.

As if sensing the warring thoughts within her mind, the leader reached through the bars, closing his hand over hers. She gasped and looked up. His eyes gleamed in the frail light.

“You have nothing to fear from us,” he assured her. “I give you my word that you will be safe.”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “My fate is in God’s hands now.”

Once unlocked, the cell door swung open easily. The men pushed forward, eager to be free. Bethan felt a hand at her elbow and was relieved to see it was Haydn. He had placed himself protectively between her and the other men. Slowly, she exhaled.

“Which way?” he asked.

She lifted her chin to indicate the direction. “The passage is very low and narrow. We must form a single line and be very, very quiet.”

With a confidence she was far from feeling, Bethan led them along the shadowy corridor. Mice and rats scurried over their feet, cobwebs caught on their hair and faces, but no one uttered a sound.

Finally they reached the base of a narrow, wooden staircase. Regretfully, Bethan extinguished her torch, plunging them into total darkness. Biting her lip, she started the slow climb up the stairs, but was quickly pulled back.

“Let me go first,” Haydn commanded. “You do not know what you will find above us.”

It took two tries to dislodge the trapdoor. Once it was pushed aside, Haydn easily pulled himself through. After he had successfully cleared the opening, Bethan followed, poking her head out. The smells of straw, horses, and manure let her know they had reached the stables. Blinking hard, she reached up and allowed Haydn to help her out. The rest followed quickly behind her.

“We would be harder to catch on horseback,” one of the men suggested as he stroked the back of a sleek mare who stood contentedly in her stall.

“No!” Haydn ordered. “If we try to ride out we will alert the guards and be pursued. Our best chance is to escape on foot.”

“He is right,” Bethan agreed. “You can slip over the wall on the south end. From there it is but a short run to the forest, and freedom.”

They left the stable under Bethan’s guidance, avoiding the watchtower, keeping to the darkest shadows of the buildings. The ground, wet from the recent rain, was soft beneath their feet. They came to the south section of the wall and Bethan halted. The moon, low in the sky, cast a few weak rays through the primeval forest that loomed just beyond, the tops of the dark, thick trees lashing in the wind.

Silently, the men hoisted themselves over the wall, until only young Haydn was left. He turned to face her and Bethan felt her breath catch.

“I owe you a debt I fear I can never repay. But have a care, Bethan of Lampeter. If de Bellemare ever learns of your part in all this…” His voice trailed off.

Bethan swallowed hard as she acknowledged his warning. She saw the sincerity in his eyes, heard the genuine note of concern, and felt vindicated in her actions. This young man did not deserve the cruel death her stepfather had decreed and she was pleased she had been able to save him.

“I will be careful,” she replied. The rain began, a steady drizzle that quickly soaked her gown. “Godspeed, Haydn of Gwynedd. I shall pray for your safe deliverance from this place of evil and I shall pray even harder for the rain to cease and bright sunshine to greet the day.”

“Sunshine?”

“Aye, sunshine. I do not know why, but ’tis the one thing that always keeps de Bellemare indoors. If he learns of your escape, he will give chase, leading his men until you are found. He is vengeful, ruthless, and possessing of powers beyond mortal men. He will not return without you. Or your mutilated bodies.” She swallowed hard. “But if there is sunshine tomorrow, he will send his soldiers out alone and if you have run far and covered your tracks, you might yet succeed in eluding them.”

He nodded, though she worried that he did not fully understand the danger her stepfather presented.

“Farewell,” he whispered.

Then to her utter astonishment, he executed an elegant bow, vaulted over the wall, and headed toward the open fields. Bethan scrambled on top of an abandoned oxcart and watched, her heart thumping with fear. She could see the other men had fanned out through the fields, all scurrying in different directions, hoping to increase their chances of survival if they were pursued.

Yet it was so open, so bare. If any were sighted, they would be easily captured. And most likely tortured before they were killed.

Bethan shuddered with revulsion, but knowing there was nothing more she could do, she climbed down from the cart. Carefully, silently, she made her way back to her bedchamber, her mouth moving in prayer with each step she took.

 

Haydn ran through the clearing toward the thick grove of trees. He pushed himself until the burning in his lungs became a constant, unbearable pain, but he did not slow until the tall trees and dense thickets had swallowed him. Still keeping a steady speed, he glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see no one.

The scent of spicy pine drifted around him, normally a comforting scent but the tension inside him seemed to crackle in the air. Panting, his breath coming in deep gasps, Haydn allowed himself a moment of rest. He strained, listening for the sound of horses’s hooves, the baying of dogs, the thundering rhythm of marching men in hot pursuit. But he heard nothing. Only the groaning of the trees as they fought the wind and in the distance, the hooting of an owl.

He picked up the pace, his leather boots slipping on the wet pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. Rain fell in torrents, splattering Haydn’s face, making it difficult to see. He lowered his head and thrust himself forward, determined to make progress, knowing if he reached the outer edge of the forest it was but a short sprint to the base of the rugged hills.

He ran for hours, until every muscle in his body ached, every bone jarred. Blinking against the pelting drops, he lifted his head. Lightning forked in the sky and thunder boomed through the forest, illuminating the mantle of darkness. And then he saw them. The stark, bare, stone hills.

Freedom.

Rain lashed from the sky, pummeling the ground. But Haydn barely felt it. With renewed strength, he pushed his wet hair from his eyes. For the first time since he had been captured two long months ago, he smiled.

They would not be able to track him once he began to climb, even if de Bellemare led his soldiers on the hunt. He remembered the earnest expression on Bethan’s face as she told him she would pray for sunshine so her stepfather would not pursue him.

As for Haydn, well, he would pray for light rain and a dense fog. Bethan knew only that de Bellemare was reluctant to be in the sunlight, freely admitting she was unaware of the reason.

But Haydn knew. He knew that once bathed in sunlight de Bellemare would burst into flames and burn until he was consumed. He knew de Bellemare was cursed. He was not alive, nor was he dead. He was undead. He could breathe, his heart beat, he ate, drank, slept, but most importantly he could not easily die.

De Bellemare was a vampire. He could live forever, with his amazing strength and cruel, evil countenance, as long as he had blood. Human blood.

Haydn knew that de Bellemare could go mad with bloodlust, killing humans as well as other vampires. Haydn believed that was what had happened to his parents—de Bellemare had gone on a rampage, had broken a taboo held for centuries among his kind and slaughtered every creature that drew breath within Haydn’s family manor.

Haydn knew this, understood this, because he too was a creature of darkness, a vampire. A twist of fate had saved him from sharing the same gruesome end as his family. He had been away from the manor at the time of the attack. He had tracked those responsible for the carnage and been caught and imprisoned.

The need to avenge this evil wrong, to destroy his sworn enemy was the force that drove Haydn. Much as he wanted to, he knew it was madness to challenge de Bellemare now. Haydn was young, his abilities not yet fully developed. Therefore he knew he must wait, he must build his strength, harness his powers, and in due time, gain his revenge.

Thanks to young Bethan of Lampeter’s courage, he would have that chance.

Ten years later, early spring

“I have decided that you shall marry within the month, Bethan,” Sir Agnarr de Bellemare decreed. “I am done with your paltry excuses and maidenly foolishness.”

The self-proclaimed Lord of Lampeter made his announcement as the evening meal was being served. The hall bustled with activity, people, and noise, but Bethan felt several pairs of eyes turn to her. She imagined her stepfather had raised his voice intending to be overheard, intending to demonstrate yet again that he, and he alone, ruled this land and all who resided within it.

Bethan clutched her hands together in her lap so no one, especially de Bellemare, would see them tremble.

“Precisely who am I to marry, my lord?” she asked cautiously, trying to force a light, uncaring note into her voice. “’Tis over a year since any acceptable men have presented themselves to me as potential suitors.”

“The fault for your lack of suitors does not lie with me,” he spat out.

To her dismay, Bethan flinched. His words had struck a chord. At three-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when most women married. As she matured, there had been some interest, but any man that she was willing to consider quickly changed his mind when he tried to negotiate a bridal contract with her stepfather.

In the end, Bethan had not been too despondent, for she knew the one characteristic she required in a husband, above all others, was his ability to stand up to the Lord of Lampeter. Unfortunately, that man had yet to be found.

“I have been far too lenient about this matter,” de Bellemare announced. “I will select the groom myself and you will be pleased with my choice.”

“Your choice?” Bethan said in a clear voice that easily reached the end of the hall. “I agreed to an arranged marriage, my lord. Not a forced one.”

“Damn your insolent hide!” Lord Lampeter slammed his fist upon the trestle table so hard his goblet of wine shuddered, tipped, and fell over. The rich red liquid ran like a river to the edge, then trickled over the side.

Bethan straightened her shoulders. “Three years ago you agreed, sir, that I would have the final choice as to which man becomes my husband. Surely, you do not mean to break your promise to me, an oath sworn before God and our people?”

He glowered at her and Bethan felt a rising fear. ’Twas not prudent, or safe, to push his temper beyond a certain point, but she had to reestablish her rights in this process in front of witnesses. It was her only chance.

“You know your stepfather is a man of his word,” Lady Caryn said quietly. “He would never dishonor himself in such a fashion by breaking his promise.”

Bethan turned to her mother in gratitude, grateful for the support. The answering smile of encouragement she received nearly broke her heart. The once lovely Lady Caryn was thin to the point of gauntness, her complexion pale, bloodless. She was in so many ways a shadow of her former self, but her instinct to protect her daughter remained strong.

“I need no defense from you, lady wife,” de Bellemare grunted in disgust. “If you had given me a son, a proper heir, this matter would not be of such grave importance.”

Cowed, Lady Caryn bowed her head. The Lord of Lampeter never missed an opportunity to berate his wife over her failure to produce the requisite heir. Bethan felt it was especially unfair, since her mother had literally tried for years to bring forth a living child, becoming pregnant nearly every spring, and either miscarrying or burying a stillborn babe by fall. So much sadness and difficulties, both physical and emotional, had taken a toll on her health and spirit.

For a time Bethan thought he might put aside Lady Caryn and take a new wife, but surprisingly that had not come to pass.

Without a son to inherit, Bethan was heiress to Lampeter, a vast property of sizeable wealth. But de Bellemare had no intention of letting control of the property slip from his grasp any time soon. Though he left his true motivation unspoken, even a fool knew that Lord Lampeter meant to mold her bridegroom into his image, intending to train him to do his bidding.

Would they never escape this dreadful tyranny?

Bethan’s blood ran cold at the thought of spending the rest of her life joined to a man like her stepfather. Arrogant, violent, aloof, cruel. She would be better off dead. Or in a convent.

For a moment she let her mind wander as she contemplated life as a nun—serene, reflective, safe. It was tempting. Though she freely acknowledged she had no calling to do God’s work, the prospect of spending the rest of her life out from under the thumb of Agnarr de Bellemare held enormous appeal.

It was also a dream, a selfish dream. She could not abandon her mother, nor turn away from those who depended on her. De Bellemare was a harsh taskmaster. He slaughtered not only the soldiers he fought, but many of the innocent people they protected. He routinely burned villages, defiled women, cared not one wit when famine swept through Lampeter.

It was only through Bethan’s intervention these past years that so many of her own people survived. If she abandoned them now, they might all perish. Though it meant personal sacrifice, she knew she must do whatever she could to protect them.

That promise brought her mind to the book that awaited her in her bedchamber. Through means he would not divulge Father William had smuggled the missive to her and begun teaching her to read it. As a woman, she had not been given the benefit of learning, but the situation was so dire Father William could not refuse her pleas.

The book was an ancient tome, containing knowledge of pagan rights, the dark arts and the mystical, unholy creatures who performed them. There were accounts of men who could change their humanly form at will into an animal of prey such as a wolf; men who became glowing red-eyed monsters when the moon was full; others who possessed the upper body of a man and the lower body of a winged serpent.

There were tales of witchcraft, sorcery, and demons who made pacts with the devil. It fascinated and frightened Bethan, but she continued to study the volume each day, for what she sought was knowledge. Knowledge to understand her stepfather’s strange habits.

She was convinced he was not a man of this world. A witch perhaps? Or a wizard? ’Twas the only explanation for the things that could not be explained or understood. Nearly everyone in the castle feared de Bellemare too much to pay close attention, but Bethan had observed him for years.

While others had started to show the passage of time on their face and form, the Lord of Lampeter had not aged a day. Instead of declining, his physical strength had increased. Bethan had witnessed on several occasions his peculiar and disturbing ritual of drinking the warm blood of an animal he had just slain.

He was noticeably restless, edgy, and even more prone to strike out at others when the moon was full. He claimed the sunlight caused a pain in his eyes and thus avoided it, staying indoors on the rare days the sun shone brightly. But on such a day Bethan had been the only witness to a most bizarre event.

She had been tucked away in the corner of her mother’s solarium, enjoying a few moments of quiet solitude. Her stepfather had entered the chamber. Not finding what he sought, he turned to leave. But as he strode from the room he stepped too close to the window, passing his hand through a shaft of sunlight. The exposed flesh of his fingers had burst into flames.

Frightened, shocked, horrified, Bethan had curled herself into a tight ball, hiding herself behind the stone archway, praying she had not been seen. Cursing, de Bellemare had left the solarium. When he appeared at the evening meal, all traces of the wound were gone.

“We shall speak no more of your marriage,” de Bellemare ordered in a menacing voice, and the sound of his raised tone brought Bethan back to the present. “Since I gave you my word, I shall put forth two of my own knights as your potential bridegroom, so you may choose your husband. But mark me well, girl, you shall be married before the last crop has been planted on my lands or suffer the consequences.”

Though she vowed to remain impassive, Bethan was having trouble breathing. She knew from experience that once he had reached a decision, Lord Lampeter did not change his mind. There would be a wedding within the month, even if she had to be brought kicking and screaming to recite her vows.

She knew there was only one way to avoid a match to a man of her stepfather’s choosing. She needed to find herself a husband. Quickly.

 

There were many times in the past ten years that Bethan firmly believed God had forsaken her. The Almighty had delivered evil—in the form of Agnarr de Bellemare—on their doorstep and done little to keep it in check.

But a skirmish on the southern borders called her stepfather and his most loyal troops away and Bethan knew her prayers for a miracle had been answered. With Lord Lampeter otherwise occupied, she now had the chance to find her champion.

It had not been easy, but with a heartfelt plea and a touch of guilt, Bethan was able to persuade Sir Colwyn, the hardened soldier who had loyally served as her father’s garrison commander, to escort her on her quest.

They had traveled north on horseback with a handpicked contingent of soldiers, making only brief stops for food, water, and rest. They met few travelers as they climbed the mountains, the roads slick with mud from the constant rain, the forest blanketed with spindly trees not yet awakened from their winter sleep.

Bethan made no complaints as she lolled with exhaustion in her saddle, grateful that she had been given this chance. Sir Colwyn had been most skeptical indeed when she revealed her plan to find Lord Meifod, the man they called the Warrior of the North. He was said to be a bold, self-assured man, a battle-seasoned warrior with unrivaled fighting skills. She believed he was the one man in all of Wales who could protect her, and her people, from Agnarr de Bellemare.

“What will you do when we meet Lord Meifod?” Sir Colwyn had asked.

“I will convince him to take me as his wife.”

“How do you know he does not already have a wife?”

“I have never heard any tales of a Lady Meifod.”

Colwyn snorted. “Perhaps she is a dull maiden, not worthy of a troubadour’s tale.”

“Hmmm, perhaps.” Bethan offered him a scant smile. A wife was but one of the many obstacles she faced, but she was not about to voice any of the nagging doubts that tormented her. Her only chance of escaping her stepfather’s ruthless domination was to strike a bargain with her future husband.

They rode another two leagues through a steep mountain pass and then Colwyn announced, “We are here, my lady.”

Teetering with exhaustion, Bethan was instantly revived by the knight’s words. She squinted at the castle perched high upon the crest of a hill, inordinately pleased to discover the impressive structure was constructed of timber, in keeping with the Welsh tradition.

The rain had stopped, the gray mists of the morning had burned away, leaving a rare afternoon of bright sunshine. Bethan nudged her horse forward. Her guard surrounded her on all sides, engulfing her in a protective ring as they joined the scattering of men, women, and children on the road to the castle.

There were wagons filled with casks of ale, carts pulled by oxen loaded with bags of grain. Women carried baskets of eggs and young spring vegetables, one lad hauled a pail of fish, another an armload of firewood.

“Are you certain we are at the right place?” Bethan asked. “’Tis said that Lord Meifod prefers solitude. This hardly appears to be the dwelling of a recluse.”

“Lord Meifod lives in the castle, my lady. Not the village,” Sir Colwyn replied.

Sir Colwyn kept his eye squarely on the castle looming ahead while Bethan took a moment to inspect the rest of the area. The village was set within a valley of rolling hills with steep mountain ranges on all sides that provided a natural defense.

She noticed a few fat cattle grazing in a nearby field, while a second meadow accommodated a substantial herd of sheep. The sounds of honking geese, clucking chickens, squealing pigs, and yapping dogs filled the air, along with the occasional shout of a child at play.

They were not challenged entry by the soldiers that stood sentry around the perimeter, yet all normal activity seemed to cease, as the villagers stopped whatever they were doing to turn and stare as they went by.

“I suspect they have few visitors, my lady,” Sir Colwyn commented.

“No doubt they have never seen such a fine and handsome escort,” Bethan teased as she offered a smile to a pretty, pregnant woman carrying a large basket of laundry under her arm. The woman returned the smile shyly, then lowered her head and hurried away.

The blacksmith, leatherworker, weaver, and potter all had shops disbursed among the cottages and each appeared to be doing a brisk business. Bethan was surprised and impressed by the obvious prosperity of the village. The buildings were in good repair, the merchant stalls stocked with a variety of goods, and the people examining the wares looked hale and hearty.

Once through the village, Sir Colwyn quickened their pace. A shout of warning was heard from the castle, long before they reached it. When they did arrive, the sentry standing high on the watchtower assessed them with a furrowed forehead. Bethan’s soldiers tightened the protective ring around her further as they halted in front of the large, closed oak gates.

“State your business,” the sentry called out.

“I am Lady Bethan of Lampeter. My guard and I seek shelter for the night.”

The sentry snorted, then said something to his companion, who took off at a run. Bethan straightened her back and tried to quell the nerves that had started fluttering in her stomach.

“Hardly a friendly greeting,” Bethan exclaimed wryly to Sir Colwyn, her eyes fixed on the archers lining the walls.

“The men are well trained,” Sir Colwyn commented, his voice echoing approval.

“’Tis hardly necessary. Our numbers are too small to pose any sort of threat to a fortified castle of this size,” Bethan protested.

“A soldier who underestimates any potential threat quickly loses his position,” Sir Colwyn added. “And often his life.”

They continued to wait, the warm sun beating down on their heads, until an order was given granting them entry. Slowly the portcullis began to rise. Bethan and her guard moved together in synchronized step as they passed through the large gatehouse and across the outer bailey.

Bethan immediately noted that the calm serenity and cheerful atmosphere so prevalent in the village was clearly lacking within the castle walls. Armed knights patrolled the low battlements, while the archers lining the walls had shifted their attention inward, their notched arrows at the ready. There was no doubt that this was the home of a warrior, a mighty stronghold meant to keep others out.

They passed through to the inner bailey and here everyone seemed in a hurry, bustling quickly from task to task. The armorer was pounding out metal into swords, the carpenter repairing the door on the stables, the carter fixing a broken wheel on a large oxcart. Bethan watched for a moment, then realized with a startled surprise why it seemed so strange. There were no women. Those hauling the firewood, tending the kitchen herb garden, and hanging the laundry were all male servants.

A tall man wearing a long, hooded mantle emerged from behind a pile of wine casks and hurried toward them. Though the material of his garment was costly, Bethan did not think he was Lord Meifod. He seemed too slight in stature, too refined to be known as the Warrior of the North.

“Welcome, my lady.” He bowed, his eyes moving over her with interest. “I am Frederic Bonvalet, steward of the castle. I am pleased on behalf of Lord Meifod to offer you and your men shelter for the night.”

“I am Lady Bethan. We gratefully accept His Lordship’s kind offer of hospitality.”

Bethan smiled and with the steward’s assistance, dismounted. She fell in step beside him as they walked into the hall. Sir Colwyn followed at a respectable distance while the rest of the men saw to the horses. They crossed the wide expanse of the great hall and Bethan’s stomach rumbled as the scent of freshly baked bread and rich spices tempted her appetite.

“We will be serving the evening meal shortly,” Frederic remarked.

Bethan blushed. “Will your master be joining us?”

“No.”

“Oh. Is he away from the castle?” she asked, voicing a fear she had not anticipated. “Will he be gone long?”

“Lord Meifod is too busy to attend to any unexpected guests.”

“But I wish to express my gratitude for his hospitality to your lord in person, as any well-bred lady ought.”

“I will convey your thanks to him myself.”

“You do not understand.”

“I understand far more than you think,” the steward replied, not unkindly. “There are many who wish for an audience with Lord Meifod, but few are granted. And never to a woman.”

Bethan felt the blush on her face deepen as her cheeks heated with embarrassment. She had not meant to sound so desperate. “I am afraid I was unclear. I have traveled a great distance to speak with His Lordship concerning an urgent, personal matter. Surely he can spare me a few moments?”

The steward glanced at her impassively. “I will convey your request to Lord Meifod, but caution you not to hold out hope.” He cocked a brow. “I notice you are traveling without a maid. We have no female servants at the castle, but I can send for a woman from the village to attend you, if you wish.”

“Thank you, no. I can manage very well on my own.”

They had reached another door, which the steward opened. Bethan entered the bedchamber, hardly glancing at her surroundings.

“I will send a servant to fetch you when dinner is served,” Frederic said, bowing gracefully.

Though she smiled pleasantly, inside Bethan was nearly shaking with disappointment. So close! She had overcome so much to get here, and then to be so easily dismissed was a bitter, painful pill to swallow.

Her fingers gripped the base of the ewer set on the table near the canopied bed. Itching to lift it and hurl it across the room, Bethan instead forced herself to take several calming breaths.

All was not yet lost. She had found her way inside the castle. Somehow she would find a way to see Lord Meifod. She had not come this far to be denied.

 

Haydn stood well back from the deadly rays of sunshine and stared out the window of his bedchamber. With growing annoyance he watched the progression of the small troupe of soldiers as they wound their way through the village and started on the path to his castle.

“Hellfire and damnation!” Haydn cursed, curling his hands into fists, when he spied the female rider in the center of the pack.

“My lord?”

His steward, Frederic Bonvalet, appeared in the doorway.

“Grant them one night of shelter,” Haydn commanded, knowing the answer to the question before it was even asked. “No more.”

The steward bowed and hurried away. Not surprisingly he returned within the hour.

“The lady wishes an audience with you,” Frederic said.

“Did you tell her that I refuse?”

“I did. Several times. But that did not appease her.” The steward cleared his throat. “She claims ’tis a personal matter of great urgency.”

“Ah, great urgency. For women ’tis always urgent when it comes to getting their own way.”

“She seems especially desperate, my lord. Would you not consider making an exception this one time?”

Haydn’s mouth twisted in irritation. She must be a real beauty or a particularly fine actress to have influenced the loyal steward to plead her case.

“My answer remains the same. And it would behoove you to remember that your allegiance is to me, Frederic, not some flighty noblewoman with a pretty face and a heaving bosom.”

The steward wilted under Haydn’s disapproving gaze. “Forgive me.”

Haydn dismissed Frederic with a wave of his hand, but his thoughts remained on the mysterious lady.

She was hardly the first to come and beg for his assistance. For years, women had flocked to his castle, seeking something from the Warrior of the North. They flattered him, pleaded for help, even coyly offered him sexual favors.

At first, he was polite, yet firm with his refusals, trying to cushion the rejections. Still, they came. So after a time, he ceased meeting them. In his experience, mortal women of noble means brought nothing but trouble.

Haydn moved to the window and released the heavy linen curtain, plunging the chamber into blackness. Dark as pitch, he waited for the calm to settle his agitation, but it eluded him. Haydn’s jaw tightened. It was the woman. Her presence within his castle walls had stirred the air, had created a tension that would not leave until she departed.

Perhaps it was time for him to consider returning to the fortress where he had lived with his parents. He had seen it three years ago, a dark and deserted ruin, blackened by fire, overgrown with brambles. The locals claimed it was cursed, a sinister place, fit only for the devil.

He could reclaim it, repair it, make it comfortable for himself, but even restored, he knew no humans would willingly reside there with him. He closed his eyes, wondering if he was ready to embrace that life.

He lived here in solitude, but had come to appreciate the occasional company of those who lived under his command. They accepted him because they knew not what he truly was, a vampire, a creature of darkness who hunted in the dead of night, thirsting for blood.

The villagers worshiped him from afar, because he kept them safe. His soldiers, in awe of his battle prowess, were loyal to him, the male servants who worked at the castle were content, because he treated them fairly.

He was pleased with the life he had created for himself, yet never far from his mind was the purpose of his existence, the need to plot his revenge against his bitter enemy, Agnarr de Bellemare.

His gut still burned every time he thought of de Bellemare’s treachery, but Haydn had learned to leash his anger, to harness the demons that clamored in his head. He knew he would have but one chance to annihilate his enemy. He knew also that if he failed he would suffer the same grim fate as his parents.

The afternoon sunshine eventually gave way to the dusk of evening, but Haydn did not leave his chamber. He sat in the dark. He sat in silence. He sat alone and pondered his future.

 

“They want us to depart within the hour, my lady,” Sir Colwyn told Bethan the following morning.

“But we cannot leave! I have yet to see the Warrior of the North and made my proposition.”

Colwyn shook his head. “Bonvalet was most adamant in his instructions. I suspect we will get our innards spilled all over the great hall if we remain much longer.”

Bethan rubbed her temples to alleviate some of the pain that was throbbing over her eyes. Her initial worry of having her proposal soundly denied by Lord Meifod seemed like a ridiculous concern, considering that she was finding it almost impossible to even present that plan.

“Tell him that I am ill,” she said.

“My lady—”

Bethan held up her hand to silence Sir Colwyn’s protests. “Tell the steward that I am ill, unable to rise from my bed. Explain this is a usual occurrence, one that happens each month to me.”

“Each month?” Sir Colwyn’s bushy brows drew together in confusion, and then a blush of red heated his cheeks.

“Precisely.” Bethan paced between the window and bed, trying to release her nervous energy. “I am hoping the hint of womanly difficulties will embarrass the steward enough to buy us another day inside these walls.”

“But what good is another day? Lord Meifod has refused to see you.”

“True, he has refused me a formal audience. But a casual meeting will serve me just as well. Today you must discover the location of the master’s chambers and plot a route from my room to his. I shall wait until the castle sleeps and then go to him in the dead of night to plead my case.”

“Lady Bethan, you are a maiden! You cannot present yourself to this warrior in his bedchamber. Whatever will he think of you?”

“He will think I am serious,” she retorted. “And desperate. Both of which are true.”

“I cannot allow it,” the knight declared. “I am sworn to protect you and this plan puts you directly in harm’s way.”

Bethan threw back her shoulders. She knew Sir Colwyn was right. Her unexpected, uninvited appearance in Lord Meifod’s bedchamber would put her in a very precarious position indeed.

But she had little choice. Time was running out. Her tale of a womanly illness would not work beyond today. She must see him tonight or else forever lose the chance to save herself, to save her people.

“No arguments. Just find that bedchamber, Sir Colwyn.”

 

The hallway was dark, cast in shadow by the few lit torches scattered along the wall. Bethan had spent the past two hours memorizing the directions Sir Colwyn had given her and she was grateful to have committed the details to memory, for her nerves were making it difficult to think. Tamping down her doubts, Bethan allowed her feet to carry her forward, through one corridor, then up a steep set of stairs to the next level and chamber where Lord Meifod slept.

She felt the goose bumps rise on her skin and she sent up a hasty prayer that she would find him soon. Biting her lip, she hurried onward into the darkness. She took but two more steps before the hair on the nape of her neck rose in warning, giving her the heart-stopping sensation that she was being watched.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” she whispered.

Icy silence was the only reply. Bethan drew herself up, paused, and listened. She froze, allowing her senses to sharpen; then slowly pivoting her head, she studied the shadows behind her, half expecting someone to materialize and confront her.

But there was nothing.

Shaking her head at her foolish nerves, she continued, until suddenly from out of the darkness came a dark figure, large and imposing. Bethan gasped and took a step backward, nearly stumbling over her clumsy feet.

The noise catapulted the figure into action. The shadow moved, so swiftly she was unsure she could trust her eyes that it had in truth been real. Then suddenly a bulky arm came out of the shadows and snaked around her waist. Before she had a chance to utter a sound, a second hand clamped over her mouth, snuffing her cry of alarm.

For the space of a heartbeat, pure terror pounded through her veins, rendering her immobile. Her captor dragged her down the hall and Bethan came to life. Kicking, thrashing, and twisting, she fought to escape the iron bonds that held her prisoner.

Oh, why had she not listened to Sir Colwyn? It was utter madness to put herself in such grave danger by wandering the hallways of a strange castle in the middle of the night. Tears of frustration came to her eyes when she realized she might very well pay for her foolishness with her life.

“Cease your struggles at once or else you shall wake my guards.”

The voice that spoke was low and arrogant. Bethan winced and tried to calm herself, knowing this must be the man she sought. She remained perfectly still and he removed his hand from her face. But the other arm, strong as steel, remained around her waist.

Bethan could barely breathe, was terrified of moving. Yet slowly she turned and looked up at her captor, straining to see the features hidden within the hooded cowl of the man’s mantle, but it was too dark.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

His tone was menacing and angry. The panic tightened in her breast. Bethan tried to summon a smile, but her lips trembled so forcefully she knew the effort was a failure.

Stay calm. Keep your wits. “I am Bethan of Lampeter. My men and I arrived yesterday afternoon.”

“There are no guest chambers in this section of the castle. What were you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

A rumble of displeasure rose from deep within his chest. “Well, now you have seen me. I bid you good night, my lady.”

He released his grip and turned to leave. Bethan felt despair tear at her soul. “Wait! Please, I must speak with you on a matter of grave importance. Is there somewhere private we may converse?”

“Private?”

“Your bedchamber, perhaps?”

He shifted and his hood fell from his head, revealing his face. Bethan was almost afraid to look, worried he might be hideously scarred or disfigured. But her fears were unfounded. The Warrior of the North was an uncommonly handsome man. Black hair, silky thick and straight, hung to his shoulders. The arch of his brow was noble, his cheeks chiseled, his jaw square and strong and perfectly symmetrical. His eyes were pale and silver, alert and intelligent.

For one brief, fanciful instant she thought there was something familiar about him, but knew that was impossible.

“There is but one reason for a woman to come to a man’s chambers in the middle of the night.”

“I just want to talk,” she muttered.

“That’s what they all say.” A menacing smirk quirked one corner of his mouth. “Come.”

Bethan stared at him, sensing it could be dangerous to trust him, yet all the while knowing he was likely her only hope of defeating her stepfather. Her breath rasped out of her lungs in thin puffs. She swallowed hard, her courage dwindling for a moment. Then burying deep the fear that choked her throat and robbed her of speech, Bethan held out her hand and let the volatile stranger lead her away.

Haydn kept his stride purposefully long, but the woman kept up despite her smaller stature. Her breath came in panting puffs and he felt a brief flash of sympathy, but he did not slow.

Though he had not shown it, he had been startled when she revealed her name. Bethan of Lampeter. He remembered well the young girl who had risked all to save him from de Bellemare’s butchery. ’Twas difficult to believe that this beautiful woman, with long golden hair that cascaded over her full bosom and a face boasting delicate, feminine features and luminous green eyes, was one and the same.

Why was she here? What did she want from him?

He shut the door to his bedchamber and faced her. With the curtain pulled aside, the light of the half-moon shone brightly through the window, more than sufficient for someone with his keen eyesight. His gaze moved over her once more, marveling anew at her delicate beauty. He waited in silence, watching her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“You are in my bedchamber. As you requested. Speak.”

The pallor on her face increased. “I have come seek…seeking…” she stopped, stumbling over the words. “Forgive me, but I have the strangest sensation that we have met before.”

“We have met, my lady.” His gaze softened on her. “You knew me once as Haydn of Gwynedd.”

Bethan’s eyes widened. “You survived! I always wondered. And the others?”

Haydn shook his head. “I know not of the other men. We broke apart and each went our separate way, hoping to increase our chances of escape. Did the guards or de Bellemare give chase?”

Her eyes lightened with amusement. “My stepfather never knew you had escaped. The guard that watched the door to your cell changed at dawn. The new guard was brother to the first, so when they came to take the men from your cell to be executed, the second guard insisted you had already been moved. He knew if my stepfather discovered there had been an escape, both brothers would have been tortured and killed.”

“It seems that fate smiled upon us all that night.”

“Indeed.” A victorious grin stretched across her lips.

“Tell me, why have you come all this way, Bethan of Lampeter?”

“I need a husband.”

“You are a comely lass. ’Tis hardly necessary to travel such a great distance to find a man willing to marry you.”

“I need a man with the courage and skill to defeat my stepfather, to free us once and for all from his savage brutality.” She moved closer and placed her hand over his. “I believe you are that man, Lord Meifod.”

In the depths of her eyes, Haydn could see her haunted sense of desperation. Her agony. Yet he forced himself to ignore it. With this offer came trouble—he could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones.

“I have no need of a wife,” he answered. “I desire peace in my life, not vexation.”

“Peace?” Her eyebrows arched. “A strange word for such a skilled warrior.”

“I do not seek battles. I do not make war. I merely defend my own.”

“I also wish to defend my people. But I cannot do it alone. Please, will you not aid me?”

Her simple plea touched him in a way he had not thought possible. More than anyone, he knew precisely the kind of evil that surrounded de Bellemare. She had survived it for years, but her strength was ebbing, her fear increasing.

He took a step closer, surprised by the sudden, savage need within him to protect this proud woman, this lovely mortal whose eyes glimmered with an odd mixture of desperation and strength. Haydn’s gut clenched and he silently called himself a witless fool as his hand reached out to touch her face.

Lord Meifod’s nearness produced a most unexpected effect on Bethan. With one hand he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek, a touch so gentle it turned her insides to knots. Fighting to quell the clamoring of her heart, Bethan smothered the impulse to turn her face into the caress.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Do we have a bargain?”

“I told you, I have no interest in acquiring a wife.”

Bethan bit her lip in frustration. “Lampeter is a rich property. Our villeins are honest and hardworking, producing some of the finest goods in all of Wales. Once you defeat Lord Lampeter it will belong to you. As ruler, you will be a very wealthy man.”

“I have no need of great wealth. My lands provide a more than adequate life for me.”

“Is there nothing I can use to barter?”

The look he sent her made her heart skip a beat. “You are a lady. I will not dishonor you, tempting as it might be.”

Bethan’s cheeks stung with heat. That was not precisely what she meant, though in truth he had a mesmerizing, sensual presence that she found most appealing. Shockingly, she admitted if he had demanded she give herself to him in exchange for his aid, she would not have protested too hard or too long.

“You misunderstand, my lord. I know my—”

He curled his knuckles beneath her chin and slowly tilted her face to his. Their eyes locked. She read the passion simmering in his eyes and waited for whatever was to come.

“You saved my life and thus deserve my gratitude. For that reason only, I will journey to Lampeter and see what I can do to help you. I cannot promise marriage, but will seek another course.” His voice was low, lulling. Heat, like scalding flames, crackled through the air. “Now go, before I do something dishonorable that we shall both regret.”

A frisson of fear raced through her. Turning on her heel, Bethan scurried from the room. As she neared her chamber, her steps quickened, until she was practically sprinting. She yanked open the heavy door, ran through, then shut herself inside.

Bethan’s breath blew out in short pants. Flattening her palms against the wooden door, she leaned into it for support. As her breathing came under control, she pressed her ear to the heavy wood. She could hear no footsteps, no sounds at all.

She was safe. For now.

 

A week later, as the mist swirled and the steady rain pounded, Haydn, flanked by a contingent of his most loyal, skilled knights, rode through the gates of Lampeter. He had sent a rider ahead, announcing their arrival and asking for shelter, ensuring that he would be admitted.

They were greeted in the courtyard by the castle steward, a man who had perfected a subservient, bowing manner that was distinctly annoying. He led Haydn and his knights into the great hall where de Bellemare awaited them.

“Lord Meifod.”

“Lord Lampeter.” Though it cost him much, Haydn bowed graciously.

“I bid you welcome. ’Tis an honor to meet the man they call the Warrior of the North.”

De Bellemare did not rise from his seat on the dais, but instead looked down at Haydn, his arrogant expression revealing his belief of the power he held over everyone and everything around him.

“’Tis I who am honored to meet you, my lord.”

Haydn attempted a smile, but failed. The need for vengeance against his bitter enemy burned through his veins and pounced with an ache in his skull, but he restrained himself. The six guards flanking de Bellemare were all large, muscular men. Even with the element of surprise, he would never be able to successfully strike at him.

Haydn noted that two were pale and not as alert as the others. He surmised de Bellemare had most recently feasted upon those two. Though it was something he did not do, ’twas a common practice to keep a close contingency of mortals around to ensure a steady supply of fresh blood upon which to feed. That he took the risk of using his personal guards spoke of de Bellemare’s arrogance. But he was not a fool. The fresh blood kept his powers sharp, his strength nearly unbeatable.

Haydn sighed with genuine regret. When he agreed to journey here, he knew it was the perfect time to seek his revenge. He had hoped to do so without directly involving Bethan. But now that he had assessed the situation, he knew he would not be able to destroy de Bellemare as quickly as he had hoped.

He would have to stay, study de Bellemare’s movements, then plan a surprise attack. There was no other way. In order to stay, Haydn would have to marry Bethan.

“Tell me, Lord Meifod, was there a specific purpose for your visit?”

“I hear you have an unmarried daughter.”

“I do.” The eyes that assessed him were unblinking, hard and ruthless. “Do you wish to meet her?”

“I have no interest in her face or figure. I care only about her dowry. And forming an alliance with you.”

“I will not deceive you. She is not much of a woman; willful, outspoken, at times almost unruly,” Lord Lampeter remarked.

Haydn shrugged. “Even the most difficult creature can be beaten into submission.”

De Bellemare laughed, his eyes smoldering with delight. “You!” he barked, pointing a finger at a young servant, who paled with fright at being noticed by his master. “Bring us wine. I have important business to discuss with Lord Meifod.”

 

Bethan paced her bedchamber anxiously, waiting for a summons from her stepfather. She had seen Haydn riding proudly into Lampeter, his back straight, his chin raised, his banner of blue and gold snapping in the rain. But that had been hours ago. Surely by now something had been resolved?

The door opened and Sir Colwyn poked his head inside. “Your stepfather has ordered you to stay in your chambers tonight. If you behave, I can fetch you something to eat. If you complain, or disobey, I was told to lock you inside and guard the door.”

“But what about Lord Meifod? Is he still here? What is happening?”

“I know not.” The old knight shook his head. “Meifod is here, cozing up to de Bellemare like a calf suckling from his mother’s teat. There are rumors flying that he has asked for your hand in marriage, but nothing has been announced.”

Bethan’s lips quivered with agitation. Her stepfather and Haydn thick as thieves? The image did not sit well in her mind. Though she would dearly love to storm the great hall and discover what was going on, Bethan feared Sir Colwyn would be punished if she disobeyed her stepfather’s orders. “I shall wait here. Please, promise you will bring me word the moment you learn anything?”

The knight agreed. Left alone for the next few hours, Bethan fought to control her worry. She paced the floor of her bedchamber until she had worn a path in the rushes. Finally, when she thought she would go stark raving mad, there was a knock at her door. She opened it, then gasped with surprise.

Lord Meifod stood framed in the doorway, his expression grim. “I need to speak with you.”

She glanced hastily down the corridor, thankful no one was in view, then yanked him inside and slammed the door.

“Our wedding will take place in two days,” he announced without preamble.

“So soon?”

Haydn’s somber gaze held hers for an unsettled moment, his gray eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight. “If you have changed your mind about the marriage, I shall tell de Bellemare I do not want it. ’Tis your choice.”

“I will marry you.” She moved close and touched his sleeve. “I am grateful for your help, but surprised at your decision. When we spoke at your castle, you seemed most set against marriage.”

“There is no other way. De Bellemare is surrounded by his personal guard. It will take time, planning, and luck to find an opportunity to strike at him.” Haydn’s eyes flashed with emotion. “However, I shall stay only until he is destroyed and you are free from his tryanny. No longer. Do you understand?”

Bethan pulled her hand back and frowned. “Once he is dead, you expect me to leave here, to live with you in your castle in the north?”

“No! I will be here but a brief time. And when I leave, I will never return. I will never see you again.”

“Oh.” Bethan bit her bottom lip as a confusing riot of emotions turned over in her heart.

“Is there a way for you to dissolve the marriage after I have gone?” he asked.

Bethan exhaled sharply. “Divorce? Is that what you demand?”

He raked a hand through his dark hair. “I will not be here as a husband to you, Bethan. In fairness, you should have the chance to choose another.”

The image of spending the rest of her life alone, without the joy of a good husband and the comfort of children, brought a lump of anguish to her throat. But she willed it away. She had to be strong, had to accept that this was her destiny.

“A second husband is the very least of my concerns. However, there is something else I must tell you.” Bethan’s gaze shifted away for a second, her mind searching for the right words. “My stepfather will not be easy to destroy. There is true evil in him, something…unnatural.”

A cold grin stole across Haydn’s handsome features. “I can handle de Bellemare.”

“Does this revelation not disturb you?” she asked, surprised at the complacent expression on his face, worried he did not understand the magnitude of this problem. “His powers give him a great advantage.”

“I am not afraid. All things can be destroyed, Bethan, including evil.”

His harsh, arrogant tone sent a shiver done her spine. His attitude was confusing, for he did not seem to be dismissing her warning, but rather embracing it. She had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling he was keeping something from her, something very important.

“Has my stepfather announced our marriage?”

“Not yet. I think he plans to do so in the morning. I advise you to look none too pleased when you are given the news. I believe it will give de Bellemare great joy to see you miserable.”

“Aye.”

Haydn lingered in her chamber for another moment, his keen gaze rooted on hers. “There is still time to change your mind. If you do so, send word to me through Sir Colwyn.”

Bethan nodded, but she knew there was no going back. He bowed his head, then left. Slowly, she closed the door, then leaned against it. She had orchestrated this entire chain of events. It was what she wanted, and yet Bethan admitted a part of her was afraid of Haydn. The darkness, the violence, the isolation that seemed to cling to him like a shroud was fearful and disturbing.

But another part made her want to hope. To dream. To dare to believe that he was the one man who could defeat her stepfather and set them all free.

But at what price? Bethan shuddered. Wearily, she lifted her hand to her brow. God help her, what had she done?

 

Bethan stood beside Haydn outside the church doors. Feeling too nervous to look at her groom, she instead glanced down at the royal-blue gown she wore. The dress had been a surprise gift from her mother, the long cuffs lovingly embroidered with golden flowers and vines, the shade matching the silken lining of the garment. Tight-fitting, it was fastened around her waist with an intricately twisted gold belt. In addition, she wore a long, finely woven veil that had belonged to her grandmother. It covered her shoulders and hung down to her feet, concealing her hair, which had been plaited and decorated with pearls.

She felt pretty in her bridal finery, pleased that she had gone to the effort, especially after a quick glimpse of her groom. His strong legs were encased in dark hose, his feet in soft leather boots. His scarlet surcoat was made from the finest material and his coat-of-arms, a mighty griffin with its wings outstretched, was embroidered upon it with precious stones, leaving no question as to his wealth.

In keeping with tradition, the bride and groom exchanged their vows outside the church doors. The chapel at Lampeter was squat and round and crafted of simple stone. Not as pretty or grand as the churches that boasted stained glass, high steeples, and beautiful statues, it was nevertheless a place of true sanctuary for Bethan, for it was seldom used by her stepfather.

Bethan was proud that her voice did not waver as she spoke her vows, nor did Haydn’s. She meant every word as she vowed to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death did them part, if the holy church would ordain it. She reasoned God would forgive the prior agreement she had made with Haydn if she kept those promises to remain a true wife.

Entering a marriage when she knew her husband had no intention of living with her for any length of time might be considered dishonest by some, but Bethan had every intention of honoring her commitment to be faithful and true to him for the rest of her life. She hoped fervently that God would understand.

With the vows exchanged, the newly married couple bowed their heads for the priest’s blessing. At that moment, a thick fog rolled in, encircling them in an eerie, mystical cocoon, separating them from the rest of the guests.

She heard murmuring behind her that this was a sign, an omen of sorts. Good or bad? Bethan could not hear the determination, but she chose to believe it was a good sign.

Father William efficiently calmed the crowd and invited everyone inside the church to celebrate the nuptial mass. Though she tried, Bethan had difficulty concentrating. Her mind wandered as she twisted the ring she now wore on her finger, a gold band with a dark jewel of bloodred that shimmered with fire.

At the conclusion of the Mass, Father William invited the groom to kiss his new bride. Haydn took her face in his hands, framing the delicate bones of her cheeks. He angled his head and swiftly kissed her closed lips. Bethan barely had time to savor the sensation because it was over so fast. Swallowing back her disappointment, she smiled at her groom, then turned to face the crowd.

They retired to the great hall, to indulge in the feast that had been prepared. For the first time since the day began, Bethan risked a glance at her stepfather. He sat in his chair on the dais, his arms crossed, frowning with displeasure.

Her mother had mentioned that de Bellemare was annoyed with the expense of the wedding feast, but faced with her groom’s obvious wealth had little choice but to provide a suitable celebratory meal. The servants had been thrilled to have the opportunity to show their love and gratitude toward Bethan, and their efforts were much appreciated by her.

Fresh herbs and bunches of wildflowers had been hung from the rafters of the great hall above the rows and rows of trestle tables. On the dais the table was set with a white linen cloth, and gold plates and goblets had been placed in front of every chair. Rose petals were strewn along the edge, adding a touch of color and a pleasing scent.

The tables fairly groaned under the vast array of food that was hot and ready to eat. Platters of veal dressed with vinegar, baked trout, tarts filled with spicy pork, stuffed roasted boar, goose in a sauce of grapes and garlic, stewed cabbage flavored with cinnamon and cloves, and thick crusty bread flavored with ale were soon emptied and fresh food brought out.

Ewers of ale, mead, and spiced wine were quickly emptied and refilled as various toasts of goodwill and happiness were offered to the bride and groom. Minstrels filled the air with the sounds of harp and lute, which blended with the tinkling sounds of laughter. Bethan could not remember a time when the great hall had been filled with so much boisterous life and merriment.

Midway through the meal the contingency of soldiers seated below them started pounding on the wooden trestle tables with the edges of their swords. Within minutes, the sound grew deafening. Bethan stole a glance at her husband. His brow was furrowed in confusion.

“They want you to kiss me,” she whispered as she leaned closer. “For luck.”

His silver eyes narrowed. “If they demand it, then I suppose we must.”

Bethan licked her lips in preparation, expecting another quick, almost impersonal kiss similar to the one he had bestowed upon her at the church. But just as Haydn was about to lower his head, a deep voice rang out from the crowd.

“Kiss her like you mean it, my lord!”

The words stopped him cold. A new determination ignited a glint in his eyes as a salacious, challenging smile curved his mouth.

One large hand slipped behind Bethan’s neck at the same moment the other curled around her waist. Haydn pulled her off her feet and into his arms, holding her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe. Bethan’s heart began to race as she felt her breasts crush against the solid wall of Haydn’s chest, but she ignored the rush of embarrassment, concentrating instead on the tingling anticipation. This was her second kiss and despite the audience she intended to make it a private moment.

She thought she was ready, yet Bethan felt a startling shock as he brought his mouth down on hers. His lips were supple but insistent, almost commanding. Warm, firm, and expertly sensual, his kiss awakened a sudden yearning deep within her soul. At the urging of his tongue, pressing boldly against the seam of her lips, she opened to him.

The nature of their kiss changed. He was no longer gentle, and oddly that pleased her. Haydn tilted his head and pressed a little harder, his mouth hot and hungry as it captured hers. She breathed in and smelled his skin, spicy and inviting.

Her knees wanted to give way, her heart pounded harder and faster. He stroked her lower lip with his tongue and the desire within her shot into flame. Bethan raised her hand and wrapped her arm around the back of his neck. Haydn responded by pulling her closer. Now their bodies touched. Everywhere.

Heated arousal swirled down her spine. The rumbling noise of tankards being banged on the wooden tables, hoots, hollers, and whistles gradually penetrated her mind. Slowly Bethan opened her eyes. A blush of embarrassment colored her cheeks as he let her slide slowly down to her feet. She buried her face in his neck for a few seconds, struggling for composure, then lifted herself away and looked at him.

Haydn appeared as stunned as she felt. His touch lingered on her face for a moment longer, firm and warm. She parted her lips, but could not catch her breath to speak.

The noise in the hall grew louder. Haydn flashed a wicked smile at her, then exhaled sharply through his teeth. Turning toward the frenzied crowd of screaming men, he lifted his goblet of wine skyward and shouted loudly, “A toast. To my bride, whose beauty and courage are beyond compare.”

The wedding celebration went on into the wee hours of the morning, but at midnight Lady Caryn, along with two older serving women, escorted Bethan from the hall. She was grateful that Haydn had refused to allow a formal bedding ceremony, reasoning it would be easier if they were alone.

When she entered her room, she hardly recognized the chamber. Her small, narrow bed had been replaced with an enormous canopied one. Against the far wall stood a wooden wardrobe, large enough to house clothing for her and Haydn. Candles had been lit and placed on a trestle table; dried herbs and scented flowers had been mixed into the clean rushes strewn about on the floors.

Bethan deliberately kept her mind and expression blank as the women helped prepare her for her bridal bed. Carefully they undressed her, reverently folding the fine garments of her wedding outfit. After a brief wash, Lady Caryn herself pulled the simple night rail of white linen over her daughter’s head. Then taking a comb, she brushed Bethan’s golden hair to a fine sheen, placing a wreath of wildflowers on the crown of her head when she was done.

“For luck,” she whispered in Bethan’s ear. “And fertility.”

The room was eerily quiet after they left. Bethan wondered if she should leave the privacy provided by the dressing screen her mother had thoughtfully provided and await her husband in bed. Nervously, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she considered her predicament.

The door opened, then closed. The butterflies in Bethan’s stomach fluttered so violently she thought she might become ill. She waited a long moment, unsure of what she would find when she stepped from behind the screen. Would he be standing there, waiting? Unclothed, perhaps? Or would he already be in the bed?

Taking a deep breath, Bethan emerged. Haydn was seated on the only chair at the small table near the fire, a goblet of wine in his hand. He silently offered her a drink, but she declined by shaking her head, fearing her voice would tremble.

Biting her lower lip, Bethan turned her gaze upon him. He smiled, though he said nothing, watching her expectantly as he drank from a goblet of wine. He had removed his tunic and shirt, but still wore his hose and boots. The firelight danced on the naked flesh of his upper torso, illuminating an impressive expanse of hard muscle and lean lines. A dusting of dark hair spread across the planes of his wide chest, tapering to a single line across his corded belly.

“Goodness, wife, you look pale as a ghost. Do you fear that I shall ravish you on the spot?”

She attempted a smile. And failed.

“Though I am far older than most brides, I am still an untouched maid,” Bethan responded, tilting her chin for courage. “My mother has explained the act, though I confess to being unprepared.”

“Preparation is the man’s job. If you desire it.”

“Sir?”

“I have never laid an unwanted hand on a woman before,” he said mildly. “And I most certainly do not intend to start now.”

“I am your wife. ’Twould be a sin for me to refuse you.”

“I give you leave to refuse me, wife.”

He turned from her and slowly poured more wine into his goblet. Bethan’s body began to quake as she realized he meant it. The decision was hers. What did she truly want?

Her heart began to race as she pictured herself kissing him. Not just on the lips, but everywhere. His chiseled jaw, the pulse beating sensually at his throat, against the dark hair on his chest down to the flat stomach below.

No matter what happened tomorrow or the next day, or the day after that, Bethan knew with all her heart that she wanted this to continue. With this man.

“Teach me how to please you, husband.”

Bethan’s voice pulled Haydn into the moment. He lifted his head and turned to face her, and the pleasant speech he had prepared vanished from his mind. He was caught in her stare as though she held him in a spell. Her lanky frame was silhouetted by the orange glow of the fire that blazed behind her. Her long golden hair was unbound and draped about her shoulders like a veil. Somehow he knew it would feel as soft and silky as it looked and he imagined his fingers wandering through that glorious mass.

Images flashed into his mind, each more lurid than the last. He closed his eyes, remembering the kiss they had shared in the hall. The feel of her lips and tongue and soft, supple body had easily shattered his defenses.

She moved closer. Haydn reached out and caught her hand. Holding it to his mouth, he placed a kiss in the cradle of her palm.

“I want there to be no misunderstanding between us,” he declared. “I will stay with you only until I have accomplished my task and freed you all from de Bellemare’s tyranny. If tonight you wish to be my wife in truth, I will gladly accommodate you, but I make no promises beyond our bargain.”

“I expect no more,” she replied.

Haydn barely caught the laugh of irony that formed on his lips. “Mortal…ahh…women are known for changing their minds about this sort of thing.”

The dreamy, faraway cloud of emotion in Bethan’s eyes vanished. “I am a practical woman who knows that my survival, and that of my people, rests on one thing. De Bellemare must be destroyed and I wholly believe you are the man who can accomplish that task. You are my champion and that is all I shall ever demand of you, Haydn.”

Bethan’s gaze bored into him. Unfamiliar emotions he could neither name nor identify assailed him. It took every ounce of discipline he possessed to stop himself from pulling her into his arms and kissing her senseless.

“I will be your champion,” he proclaimed.

He gently placed a sensual kiss on the delicate inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap as his lips tasted her flesh.

A sweep of color rose to her cheeks, but she did not lower her eyes. “You are also my husband and I very much want to be your wife. In all things. For as long as you are here with me.”

Hellfire!

Desire, long simmering, rose to the boil. Primal male instinct, no longer in check, assumed control. Haydn shifted forward in his chair and pulled Bethan into his lap. She came to him with a startled yelp.

It had been far too long since he took a woman, Haydn told himself. Or perhaps it was the kiss they had shared in the hall earlier that had stirred his passion to such heights. For an instant he wondered if the intense desire he had felt had been a fluke, an emotion and passion brought on by the heat of the moment.

Haydn bent his head, intending only a gentle kiss. Yet the moment their mouths met, Bethan opened to him with a small gasp, parting her lips and reaching up to him. With a groan, his tongue entered, finding, then stroking hers, darting deeper, then withdrawing.

Lust swept through him like a hot wind. In that moment he admitted the truth, acknowledged that he wanted to lose himself within her. Only her. Only Bethan.

His hard gaze unable to conceal his desire, Haydn let his free hand trace a gentle pattern along her delicate jaw and neck. She trembled under his touch, her breathing shallow.

He stood suddenly, holding her in his arms, knocking over the chair. She gave a startled cry when he dumped her in the middle of the bed, then lifted the edge of her night rail and swiftly pulled it over her head. Eyes pinned to her now nude body, Haydn tore off his hose and boots.

Naked, almost painfully aroused, he paused a moment to look at her. Her skin was the color of fresh milk, her breasts firm and full, the rosy peaks aching for his touch. Her legs were long and well formed, her waist slender, her hips curved. A blush colored her cheeks at his intense scrutiny, but she made no move to cover herself.

“I like it when you look at me,” she confessed in a wicked whisper.

“You are a very beautiful woman,” he rasped.

“I am your woman.”

She arched upward, offering herself. Her sensual abandon intoxicated him far more than any of the spirits he had consumed that day. He leaned in and kissed her, trailing his hands over her bare back, then moving forward to her front. He teased her with his tongue, with gentle nips of his teeth, and she gave a shuddering moan in response.

Excited by her response, he ran his fingers lightly across her breasts. She gasped when he squeezed the hardened nipples. Taking a shuddering breath, he bent down, replacing his fingers with his tongue. He kissed her, lapped her, teased her, suckled her. She made a small noise in the back of her throat and lifted her hips.

Smiling with savage determination, Haydn reached between her legs, sliding his hand up her smooth thigh. His thumb rubbed and circled and teased. Within moments she was swollen and wet and writhing on the bed.

Passion nearly blinded him. He shifted, moving down her body, spreading the plump folds that guarded her womanhood, exposing the perfect pearl inside. Bethan cried out, arching her back, lifting herself off the mattress. Haydn never hesitated. He moved between her silken thighs and placed an openmouth kiss on the very heart of her.

She stiffened. Shocked? Frightened? Embarrassed? The reasons were unimportant to him. She had said she wanted to be his in every way and this was one of the ways. His fingers clutched her hips, lifting her closer. His tongue slid between the curls and settled against her swollen, sensitive flesh. He continued to feather his tongue over her, gently laving, then sucking.

She cried out again, helpless in her pleasure, her hands grasping at his shoulders. His tempo increased to match the frantic thrust of her hips, his tongue stroking rhythmically over that one magical spot, until she gave a sharp gasp and her entire body began to shudder.

Her climax unleashed the devil within Haydn. He grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed and shoved it under her hips, tilting her upward. Desire consumed every inch of his flesh, passion coursed swiftly and heatedly through his veins. He felt on fire, fully aroused and nearly trembling with need. Knowing he could wait no longer to possess her, Haydn nudged her legs farther apart with his knee, covered her fully, and thrust inside.

She screamed as he filled her, a strangled moan of equal parts pain and pleasure. He paused, his desire faltering. He had not realized that breaking through her maidenhead would be so painful.

Her face was buried against the side of his neck. He heard the muffled sound of her voice and nearly yelled out with frustration. Awash in an agony of pleasure, he moved his hand to cup her skull, holding her so he could look into her eyes.

“Are you stopping?” she asked. “Is it over?”

He saw the confusion, the frustration in her eyes. Her fingers clutched at his hair, tugging hard. He was unsure what she wanted. “Are you in pain? Do you want me to stop?”

“No!”

He might have laughed, had not his passion been so deeply aroused. It pleased him to know that she was not afraid, that she wanted to continue. Propping himself up on his forearms, Haydn stared down to where they were joined. It was an obscene, tantalizing sight to see himself swallowed inside her body. An unexpectedly emotional and humbling experience not being able to determine where he ended and she began.

“I am still with you, Bethan.”

He felt her move and realized she was also looking.

“We are one,” she whispered in awe. “Oh, Haydn.”

His control crumbled. Withdrawing but a few inches in a slow, measured stroke, Haydn brought her legs around him and then thrust forward, filling her again. He reached between them to stroke her as he moved within her, then felt her body soften, relax.

It was heaven. He was buried inside her to the hilt, her softness surrounding him. Gritting his teeth, Haydn set a steady rhythm, holding back his release as he pumped into her. His patience was soon rewarded as her soft cries and murmurs intensified and she began to undulate beneath him, her movements mirroring his thrusts.

He felt the first shudder radiate from her body into his, heard her strangled cry. She trembled, her inner muscles tightened around him as the convulsions overtook her, her shout of delight echoing throughout their candlelit chamber.

Her climax gave him his. He grew harder, thrust deeper, then savagely filled her womb with the sudden, hot rush of his seed.

Thoroughly sated, limp with exhaustion, Haydn pushed himself into a kneeling position, pulled out of her, and slid to the edge of the bed. Bethan lay sprawled wantonly on her back, her thighs slightly parted, her eyes closed, her skin flushed, her hair a golden tangle among the rumbled bed linens. Her expression was one of utter contentment, bringing him a stab of masculine pride, knowing he had done that to her.

She mumbled and shifted her legs. He could see streaks of pink on her inner thighs and the covers beneath. Marks of her recently lost virginity.

The sight pleased him. He had never before lain with a virgin and it gave him an odd sense of possession and ownership knowing he had been her first.

He had done his duty by her and in the process brought them each great pleasure. But now it was over. Every instinct coursing through his veins told him to walk to the other side of the room and sit by the fire, calmly drinking another goblet of wine until she fell asleep. Given her state of pure contentment and exhaustion, it would not take long.

Yet he found that he could not bring himself to leave her. Crawling forward, Haydn snaked his arm around Bethan’s waist and slowly pulled her into the center of the large bed. He stretched out beside her, adjusting their positions so that their bodies were pressed close.

Bethan let out a small sigh of contentment and curled into him. Her skin was unbearably soft. Idly, Haydn stroked her shoulder, marveling at how the trusting yielding of a woman’s body could bring him such a strong measure of peace. It made him realize how alone he had been for so very long, how desperate he had been for the warmth of another’s touch.

Shaking his head at such weak, fanciful thoughts, he pulled the furs over them. Trying to ignore the strong sense of possession he felt toward this woman, Haydn listened to the gentle cadence of her breathing. Then gradually he, too, allowed sleep to claim his weary body.

 

Bethan awoke with her cheek nestled on Haydn’s bare chest, her body pressed against his, one of her legs settled between his thighs. The room was bathed in an eerie glow of sputtering candles and glowing embers from the low-burning fire in the grate. No sunlight, nor moonlight for that matter, invaded the chamber.

Puzzled, Bethan glanced at the window on the far side of the room and realized it was covered with a dark swath of material. Haydn’s cloak? She shifted her weight, intending to investigate, but the movement woke her slumbering husband.

“Is it morning?” he inquired huskily.

She shook her head. “I am uncertain. I think ’tis still night.” She moved herself into a half-reclining position, staring intently at the hidden window. “Why did you place your cloak over the window?”

“To ward off the chill,” he explained.

Her brow rose in confusion. “I had no idea you were so affected by the cold.”

“’Tis a grave secret that I shield from others.” He sighed with exaggeration. “Truth be told, I have a most delicate constitution.”

Was he jesting with her? Startled, she gazed down at his fit, muscular body, then up to his face where the merest hint of a smile curled his lips. The Warrior of the North was teasing her? The notion produced a sudden, almost painful tug on her heart.

Uncertain how to interpret this unexpected, playful side to his character, she huddled down beside him. Her hand rested on his chest. When he moved, she felt the ripple of hard muscle under her fingers and the steady, heavy thump of his heart.

“It must be night,” she muttered. “All is quiet and still inside the castle.”

“Sleep. I am certain you are exhausted.”

“No, not really. The small nap I just took has revived me.” She ran her hand over the knotted contours of his arms and chest. His physique was beautiful, the skin sleek and smooth. “You have no scars, no wounds at all. ’Tis strange for a warrior of your experience.”

He opened one eye and stared at her. “And what do you know of warrior’s scars, wife?”

Bethan smiled. She liked hearing him call her wife. “I have seen the soldiers on the practice field. When it gets too warm, they often remove their tunics and continue the training bare-chested.”

Haydn snorted. “Saints preserve us all from curious maidens. No doubt the men worked harder to build up a sweat, knowing you were ogling them.”

Laughing, she turned toward him, pressing her mouth to his chest, impishly sending her tongue across his nipple.

Haydn went perfectly still. Curious, Bethan did it again. He groaned, softly. Encouraged, she swirled her tongue around the turgid peak, then pulled it into her mouth and sucked. Hard.

He muttered a few words and she continued. Featherlight, her fingers slid down his belly, across his firm stomach. She smiled as his penis sprang up against her hand. The air grew sultry with need.

“More,” he rasped.

Bethan’s heavy-lidded gaze followed the path of her fingers. Thick and hard, his penis thrust out from a thatch of dark hair at his groin. Her hand looked very small as her fingers closed around the width of him.

She felt him shudder. Bethan drew her hand up the stiff length of him, then repeated the motion going down to the root. He moaned, flexing his hips. The response delighted her. It made her feel wanton, womanly, in control.

He caught at her hand, clamping his large one over hers, holding it immobile. Bethan, fearing he would pull it away, protested instantly. “No, let me.”

For a minute he used her hand to stroke himself. Eagerly, Bethan followed his instruction. When he let go she continued the movements he had taught her, using her thumb to spread the silky bead of liquid that leaked from the tip all around the jutting head.

He pressed himself more firmly against her, grinding his hips madly, then with an oath falling from his lips, pulled away. Dismayed, Bethan reached for him, but he held himself out of her reach.

“’Tis late. You should sleep.”

His words angered her. She was restless, edgy, filled with a need that only he could fulfill. And he wanted her to sleep? “I can sleep anytime, husband. I have but one wedding night to indulge myself.”

He stared down at her, his silver eyes fierce. “I rode you hard, my little virgin. You will be sore,” he warned.

“Probably.” She shrugged. And waited. And when he made no move, she reached out with both hands and curled them around his still hard penis.

He sucked in a sharp breath. Quick as a flash of lightning, he flipped her onto her back, pulled her close, and covered her mouth with his. The heat from his body warmed her, the press of his lips and tongue delighted her. With a sigh of excitement, Bethan wrapped her arms around Haydn’s neck, giving herself completely to the moment, and the man.

 

The next time Bethan awoke, the chamber was empty. Noting the hour was far later than usual, she summoned her maid. After a quick, thorough wash, she selected a deep red gown, delicately embroidered with silver thread around the scooped neckline and tapered cuffs. She plaited her hair, leaving one long golden braid down the center of her back, then added a short, simple linen veil.

Bethan descended the winding stairs to the great hall with a heart that felt lighter than it had in years. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she spied Haydn rising from his seat on the dais.

Eagerly she started toward him, feeling a blush of color warm her cheeks as she remembered their ardent lovemaking. Yet the shy smile of greeting died on her lips as Haydn brushed past her with barely a glance, not even a nod of acknowledgment. For an instant Bethan was too stunned to react. But her hurt was soon pushed aside, replaced by a crushing sense of anger. How dare he treat her so?

“My lord! My lord!”

She trailed after him, running to catch up. He ignored her cries, but she quickened her pace. Somehow she was able to grab the sleeve of his tunic, forcing him to stop and turn to her. Yet before she could speak, Haydn clamped a fist around her upper arm and pulled her close.

“Slap me,” he whispered in her ear.

“What?”

“Slap me! Hard. Your stepfather is watching.”

Angry enough to oblige him, Bethan swung her open palm at his handsome face. But he was too fast for her. Capturing her wrist, he twisted her arm up over her head. She jerked and kicked, trying to break free, but he slammed her against the stone wall, immobilizing her with his hips.

“What are you doing?” Her breath came in gasping pants.

“Keeping you safe.” Slowly, deliberately, he ran one finger down her throat, lingering on the wildly beating pulse at the base.

The sound of raucous laughter reached her ears. Bethan jerked her head to the left and saw several grinning knights watching the exchange. Behind them, with a smug smile of satisfaction on his lips, stood the Lord of Lampeter.

“Come, Lord Meifod. We have important matters to attend,” de Bellemare shouted. “You can play with your wife later.”

“Forgive me.” Haydn spoke barely above a whisper, studying her, his face expressionless. Then without a backward glance he released her, and strode away.

Her hands shook as her heart clamored in her chest. Though he appeared to be doing it for her stepfather’s benefit, Bethan was horrified at the way her husband had treated her. Humiliated, embarrassed, angry, and hurt, she tried to go about her business as if it did not matter, but the day had been ruined, the hope within her dashed.

 

The next three days were among the most miserable of Bethan’s life. Haydn spent all his time in the company of her stepfather. If he happened upon Bethan during the course of his day, her husband either ignored her or made a crude remark.

Though a logical part of her mind realized it was necessary for Haydn to get close to de Bellemare, to understand his enemy before he could defeat him, it was nevertheless a painful time. Her bed remained empty at night, her heart lonely and frightened during the day.

Rumors reached her ears of raids with neighboring villages, sport with other women. She tried to stifle the concern building inside her, yet these tales worried her, made her feel guilty. Each day, the knowledge that she had brought the Warrior of the North to Lampeter, had welcomed him into her bed and into her life, tore at her heart.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Bethan reached a decision. She could not go on like this, speculating as to Haydn’s motivation, not fully understanding his actions. She knew she must confront her husband, must hear from his lips precisely what he was planning.

Her mood sour, Bethan walked briskly through the courtyard, trying to decide how best to approach Haydn, when a shout rang out. Villeins began running and she was swept up in the moving crowd. They stopped short at the edge of a solid wall of people and Bethan found herself jostled toward the front.

Excitement charged the air and Bethan soon realized the reason. Two knights were fighting and it was quickly apparent this was not a practice drill, but a personal argument. Bethan froze as she recognized Haydn as one of the combatants. The men were equal in height, but Haydn was pure muscle, giving him the clear advantage.

They fought with their fists, not swords, and truth be told ’twas not much of a fight. Haydn ducked and swung, landing blows, yet receiving none. Frustrated, the knight lowered his head and charged, but Haydn easily smashed his face into the wall of a nearby building with a resounding crack that made her cringe. The man screamed as blood spouted from his nose and mouth.

Pulling him up by the collar, Haydn hit him in the jaw. The knight collapsed at Haydn’s feet. As he lay on the ground, Haydn pulled his sword from its leather scabbard, then lifted his arms high over his head.

“Stop! For God’s sake, stop!”

Bethan screamed in distress, but Haydn never hesitated. She cringed, trying to avert her eyes but she was too slow turning her head away. To her horror, she witnessed the final blow, as Haydn swiped his blade smoothly across his opponent’s throat. There were gasps from the crowd, along with several shouts of approval. With a sickened stomach, Bethan scurried from the scene, her eyes nearly blinded by unshed tears.

Minutes later, Haydn found her in the chapel.

“Bethan?”

She swallowed hard and prayed for strength as she rose slowly from her knees. He took a step forward and she gasped, recoiling.

“You are afraid of me?”

Tightly fisting her hands to keep them from shaking, Bethan squared her shoulders and tried to prepare herself for this confrontation. “Should I not be afraid? You have become little more than de Bellemare’s lackey, spending your days and nights by his side. The castle buzzes with rumors of your actions, tales of your cruelty.”

“’Tis merely gossip.”

“Perhaps. But with my own eyes I have witnessed your brutality.”

“Are you speaking of the man in the courtyard?”

“There are others?” Bethan covered her face with her hands, the fatigue and grief overwhelming her.

Without another word Haydn turned and left the chapel.

A sob escaped from her throat as Bethan fell back to her knees and began to pray.

Haydn returned, but this time he was not alone. Beside him stood a young girl. The lass looked no more than ten and was in a sorry state. Dressed in little more than tattered, filthy rags, she was pale and emaciated. Ugly bruises and lacerations marred her cheeks. Her right eyelid drooped half-closed, puffy and discolored, and her lower lip was split open in several places.

“Tell her,” Haydn commanded the girl. “Tell her about the man I slayed in the courtyard.”

The girl shivered, looked at him, helpless, afraid. “I…I…”

“You are safe now.” Haydn’s voice was soft, gentle. “Tell Lady Bethan what happened to you.”

The girl hesitated a moment more; then her voice came out in a rush of emotion. “He beat me, my lady, when I would not do as he asked. I should have let him, for he took what he wanted anyway.”

“He raped you?” Bethan asked softly.

“Aye.” Her head lowered and a tear slid down her face. “Several times. He was going to do it again, but this time I screamed and Lord Meifod heard and came to my aid.”

“Oh, you poor child.” Bethan reached out a comforting hand and laid it on the girl’s head. “You must go to the kitchen and ask for Anne. Tell her I sent you. She will have salve for your bruises and hot food for your belly.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The girl curtsied, then sniffed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her dirty gown.

With one final glance of worshipful eyes at Haydn, she left. Once they were alone, Bethan had difficulty meeting her husband’s eyes.

“I owe you an apology, my lord,” she said primly. “It appears this knight was a man who deserved killing.”

“Indeed. ’Tis why I chose him.” The candlelight fell on his face, revealing a surprising mix of emotions—confusion, concern, guilt. “I want you to know that while I have been much in de Bellemare’s company these past few days, ’tis not something I have enjoyed. Far from it.”

She nodded. “I was praying that your behavior was only because you needed to prove yourself to him, to prove your skill, your worth. Yet I confess it has been most painful for me to watch, and equally hurtful to be treated so shabbily by you.”

“Forgive me.” He placed his large hand over her small one. “I did not realize you would be so upset. I should have told you, should have explained what I was doing with de Bellemare. I am sorry if I caused you worry and pain. ’Twas never my intention.”

She turned her hand over and gave his a squeeze. “Thank you for explaining. I feel honored to be in your trust.”

“I do not give it lightly.”

For the first time in four days, Bethan smiled. “Nor do I.”

He put his other hand on her shoulder, then gently turned her face to his. “I have missed you, wife.”

She studied his angular face and her heart thumped with emotion. “Will you come to our chamber tonight?”

His eyes widened, his lips curved. “Yes.”

Haydn leaned closer. Their mouths met with no hesitation, in a short, openmouthed tender kiss that held a sweetness tinged with a hint of longing.

 

Haydn spent the remainder of the day as he had these past three, at de Bellemare’s beck and call. By the evening meal he was ready to scream with frustration, having more than his fill of the older man’s plans and schemes.

Yet what bothered Haydn most was that a part of him was drawn to this savagery. He and de Bellemare were of the same kind. He possessed the same primitive instincts as his enemy, was capable of the same brutality.

Haydn shuddered as a wave of self-loathing engulfed him. He saw the possibility of his future. He saw that if he did not learn to harness his power, if he could not learn to control his lust, to suppress the savagery of his nature, he would become like his enemy. A creature with no conscience, a being who existed in a crimson haze of bloodlust.

Haydn’s thoughts were troubled as he climbed the stairs. He wanted to destroy his enemy and leave this castle as soon as possible, but it was proving far more difficult than he thought to challenge de Bellemare. The older man was clever; his guards were around him at all times. Haydn needed to find a vulnerability and exploit it or else he would never accomplish his task.

Bethan was awake when he entered their bedchamber. His eyes met hers and for a moment something passed between them. He was glad they had talked earlier in the chapel. It had cleared the air between them, but more importantly had united them in a shared purpose, a shared burden, a shared trust.

“I have something to show you,” she said. “’Tis a book Father William has given me.”

“It can wait.” Haydn closed the distance between them in three strides. He took her in his arms and clutched her tightly to his body, breathing in her warm, intoxicating scent. “I need you, Bethan of Lampeter. I need to bury myself deep inside you, where there is goodness and joy. Will you welcome me in your bed?”

Her eyes softened. “Always.”

Haydn’s footsteps quickened with anticipation as he cut through the alley behind the village tavern. He had spent far more time in the armorer this evening than he had intended and was anxious to return to the castle, to his chambers where Bethan was waiting for him.

Their relationship had taken a significant turn after they had spoken in the chapel a few days ago. Though still cautious, they were more relaxed and open around each other.

Each agreed that the burdens and worries of the day had been far easier to bear now that their nights were spent in each other’s arms.

“Stop!” The bulky shape of a tall, brawny man suddenly stepped from a shadowed doorway, blocking the path.

“Who goes there?” Haydn peered at the figure through the darkness, trying to get a look at his face.

“Hand over your money,” the brute demanded. The blade of a broadsword flashed out of the man’s cloak, the tip pressing against Haydn’s chest.

The sudden, unprovoked attack triggered rage inside him. Quick as lightning he turned, knocking the sword away, then grabbed his assailant around the neck. The man screamed and thrashed, trying to free himself. Muscles straining, Haydn shoved him hard against the wall, hearing a distinct crack when his head connected with the stone. The man went limp.

Panting with breath, Haydn shifted the man’s bulk, rolling the body onto its back. He stared at him for a long time, a war of conscience raging in his head. It had been three days since he last fed, over a year since he had tasted human blood. Animal blood provided the sustenance he required, though vampire lore decreed human blood gave one true strength, enhanced power.

Walk away. The voice shouted in his head, but the rage of the attack still pounded through his veins. With a growl, Haydn sank to his knees and buried his teeth into the man’s throat, feeding in a frantic, possessed manner, gulping blood, savoring its warmth and sweetness.

Sated, he sat back on his haunches, staring down at his victim. The brute’s eyes were closed, his body spread at an awkward angle. Haydn reached beneath the man’s cloak and felt the beat of his heart. At least he had been able to stop before the man was completely drained. He would awaken with a clouded mind and a thick, pounding head, but no memory of the attack. With time, the bite marks on his neck would heal and fade, leaving no lasting effects.

Haydn shuddered with regret, angry that he had allowed himself to follow his most primitive instincts. He yanked the heavy leather purse hanging from the belt at the thief’s waist. With a final glance of regret, Haydn walked away. He would leave the purse on the church altar, but even knowing that Father William would use the coins to help those most in need gave Haydn little comfort.

 

“You really should read this, Haydn,” Bethan admonished. “This knowledge could mean the difference between defeat and victory over de Bellemare.”

Haydn paused, looking up. He had been carefully checking his chain mail for tears or bent links, a task normally done by a squire, but one he had always preferred to do himself.

“I assume you are referring to your magical book?”

“Yes. And stop teasing me about it.”

She lifted the tome in her hands and walked over to him. Clad only in a simple white shift, she looked ravishing. Though they had spent the past hour making passionate love, Haydn’s pulse quickly stirred at the sight of her.

Pressing the book practically beneath his nose, she waited with an expectant air. Knowing he would get no peace until he looked at the damn thing, Haydn reluctantly put down his chain mail. He carefully began turning the pages, marveling at the delicate parchment, fine scrollwork, and vivid illustrations.

“This must have cost you dearly,” he commented as he skimmed the contents.

“I appreciate the beauty, but it is the knowledge that it contains that marks its true value.” Her brow suddenly furrowed and she gave him a questioning look. “Can you read it?”

“Aye.” Haydn smiled. “Though I am not sure ’tis necessary. You pore over that tome constantly. I imagine you can recite most of the pages without looking at the words.”

She lowered her gaze and blushed. “There are certain sections I have studied harder than others. Here, let me show you.”

Having decided to indulge her, Haydn had no recourse but to read the pages she indicated, though secretly he knew that whatever half-truths and nonsense written there would be of little use to him. Haydn already understood far too well the type of creature de Bellemare was and was very aware of his superior powers and artful cunning.

He knew that Lord Lampeter had dark magical powers, that he could morph his human form into mist or become a wolf or a large bat. He knew that de Bellemare treated everything as a conquest, that he craved the hunt, delighted in plotting the strike, and reveled in the victory.

Nevertheless, he read the section that Bethan had indicated, surprised at the amount of accurate information, his thoughts distracted as he pondered who had acquired and then compiled this knowledge.

“You believe de Bellemare is a vampire?” Haydn asked, taking a perverse sense of pleasure in her intelligence for discovering the truth.

“I do.”

“But it says here that vampires fear all Christian relics and symbols. I have seen de Bellemare in the chapel.”

“I know.” He handed her the book and she set it carefully on the table. “There are a few other claims that seem a bit far-fetched, but too many of the characteristics hold true. My mother has been pale and weak ever since de Bellemare became her husband. I believe he feasts on her, draining her of blood, which he needs to survive. And look, here it says a creature of the night cannot get a child off a human female. That could explain why my mother was never able to birth an heir for him.”

“Yet he persisted in trying. Would he not have realized it was a fruitless possibility?”

Bethan pursed her lips. “De Bellemare believes he is invincible. I’d wager he thought he would be the one of his kind who would succeed. It cost him nothing to try. ’Twas my poor mother who suffered all those years.”

Haydn nodded, agreeing with her theory. It was actually more of a myth than a proven fact that the males of his kind could not impregnate a mortal female. De Bellemare certainly had the arrogance to test it.

“It says a vampire often keeps a hidden lair under ground to ensure a place of total darkness. Do you know of such a chamber?” he asked.

Bethan shook her head. “There are many passages and chambers in the depths of this structure, but I know of none that are exclusively my stepfather’s domain. Yet since the castle was built to his specifications, I think ’tis fair to assume one exists. Should we try to locate it?”

“Aye. It could prove useful.” Haydn picked up the book and turned the page. “There is not much here that speaks of how to destroy these demons.”

“I have found a few clues.” She took the book from him and searched through the pages, reading aloud when she found the proper passage.

“Vampires are cursed. They are not alive, but they are not dead. They are undead. They possess amazing strength and are extremely difficult to kill. Once defeated in combat, a stake of wood or metal must be driven through its heart, thereby pinning it to the ground. Then the head must be severed and either buried separately from the body or both parts can be burned to ash. Fire can also kill a vampire, but the creature must be burned to absolute dust.”

Haydn regarded her silently. It was chilling to hear the words of destruction fall from her sweet lips with absolute accuracy. Saints above, how would she react if she knew the truth about him?

Swept up in a sudden maelstrom of conflicting emotions, Haydn felt an almost compulsive need to blurt out the truth. To reveal that his kind were neither innately bad nor innately good. That they were like mortals, varying widely in character, possessing flaws and strengths in equal numbers.

He wanted her to understand this truth, yet he also wanted her to accept him. He wanted her to know that even though he was a vampire, he was not a monster like de Bellemare. He was capable of goodness, of kindness, of love.

Yet love could never flourish with such a secret between them. Was that what he really wanted? The chance to truly love this woman? A strong breeze wafted through the window, the sudden chill recalling his senses. What fanciful thoughts! He was thinking with his emotions, not his mind.

A lasting relationship between them was an impossibility. Haydn closed the book with a resounding thud. Bethan turned and smiled at him, her expression open and trusting.

Haydn returned the smile, yet his heart felt heavy. His secret would be kept, the barrier between them intact. It was the only prudent decision, as he grimly acknowledged that some things were best kept hidden. For everyone’s sake.

 

Bethan paced the confines of her chamber, her mind in turmoil as she waited for her husband. The evening meal had been a particularly trying one, with de Bellemare taunting her mercilessly and Haydn customarily ignoring it. She knew it was imperative that he keep his distance from her, especially in front of de Bellemare, but it was distressing nonetheless.

Their bedchamber door opened and Haydn entered. He was wearing leather breeches, boots, and a linen shirt. It was open at the neck, the laces loose and dangling, exposing his wide, muscular chest. As always, the power and confidence of his presence struck her anew.

“Why did you leave the hall so suddenly?” he asked. “Did you feel ill?”

“I could not tolerate another minute of my stepfather’s snipping at me.” She put her arms around her waist, trying to hold herself together.

“It seemed no different than his usual behavior.”

Disgusted, Bethan shook her head. “Was the light that bad in the hall this evening? Could you not see him glare at me with enraged and bloodshot eyes?”

“I did not notice,” Haydn replied. “Yet even if he did glower, you were in no real danger.”

She shuddered and turned her face away. “’Tis easy for you to talk, when you are not the one on the receiving end of those cold, menacing stares.”

“You must trust me, Bethan. I know how to handle de Bellemare and keep you safe.”

She put her hand to her chest and sighed. It was so difficult to trust, to hope, to believe she would finally be free from her stepfather. Yet if anyone was capable of accomplishing the task, it was her husband.

Haydn came up behind her. He began smoothing her hair, stroking her scalp and neck. The tension in her body fled. She turned, relaxed into his touch, tilting her head. Accepting the invitation, Haydn pressed his mouth against hers, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth.

Bethan surged toward him, softening her lips, then parting them, seeking his tongue. She cradled his face in her hands, rejoicing in the intimate contact. He was large and hot and the power seemed to glow out of him and into her.

She felt his hands on her breasts, his fingertips stroking her sensitive nipples through her gown. Then he moved his hand and began to tug at her gown. With a wicked smile he pulled it higher and higher until it slid over her hips.

Bethan felt the chill air blow over her exposed bare skin, but she made no move to cover herself. His eyes raked possessively over her glowing flesh and she thrilled at the fierceness of his expression. She wanted to belong to him utterly, woman to man. She wanted to lose herself in his heat and strength, revel in his passion and desire.

She ran her hand over the hard tendons in his forearm, then boldly reached down and caught his stiff penis in both her hands. He was thick and hard and fiercely aroused.

Deep inside, her body pulsed insistently in response.

She put her mouth to the base of his throat and kissed it, then pulling away, blew heavily on his wet skin. She smiled at his shiver. Keeping her hands busy, Bethan rubbed his stiff penis furiously up and down, reveling in his moans as she ran her finger down to the heavy sacks below.

Glancing up, she saw his head was thrown back, his eyes shut, lost in the sensations she was creating. She lowered his breeches, and his erection sprang free. Bethan sighed with excitement, in awe of his strength and beauty. Pressing a kiss against his flat abdomen, she moved lower and touched her tongue to the tip of his rigid penis.

He jerked and teasingly she did it again. She looked up. His eyes were open, staring down at her, heavy lidded with desire and passion.

“Shall I finish what I have started?” she whispered.

She thought he laughed, though it might have been a groan. Bethan went down on her knees in front of him. He arched his hips forward and she opened her mouth, encircling the head of his penis with her lips. He ran his fingers through her hair, tightening the grip on her scalp. The moment was so decadent, so beautifully sensual, tears formed in her eyes.

Bethan explored him with restrained excitement, licking and teasing with her tongue and mouth. His erection was rock hard and it shivered and throbbed under her ministrations. She quickened her rhythm, eager for a taste of his seed, but just as she felt him begin to climax, he suddenly lifted her off her feet. With a grunt, he propelled her backward until the table set beneath the window struck the middle of her back.

Surprised, Bethan teetered, almost losing her balance. Haydn caught her, spun her away from him, and once again lifted her skirts. Bethan found herself bent from the waist, her hands gripping the sides of the smooth wood.

“I have not had you this way,” he whispered. “I know you will like it.”

Bethan shivered as he moved close against her back and pressed her down. His mouth was warm and hungry on her neck as his lips traced a line of wet kisses along the sensitive nape. Her body pulsed, tightened. Heat and wetness collected between her legs and desire burned through her blood.

There was a rustling of clothes as he stepped out of his lower garments. She felt him reach between her legs, probing for entrance. She arched her back as his hardness slid deep inside her, the urgency of his mating making her dizzy.

Haydn griped her hips, holding her in place to receive his deep thrusts, pounding into her again and again. He was buried so deeply it was shocking, yet even more arousing. She felt him pulsing inside her, almost inside her womb, and felt her own throbbing response.

“Come for me,” he commanded, reaching down to stroke her.

For a moment, her mind and body hung suspended in time and then her body obeyed, the sensations bursting hotly into an explosion of bliss.

When she floated down from her pleasure, she realized he was still hard and thrusting inside her. She relaxed her body, then tightened her inner muscles. He cried out and she felt the hot rush of his seed flood her womb, his shout of contentment carrying through the small chamber.

Sated, he collapsed on top of her and she felt comforted by his warmth and weight. Harmony and contentment stole over her and she forgot her earlier distress.

He turned her onto her back and smiled down at her. His face was flushed, his eyes sparkling wildly. Bethan grinned back at him, feeling sly and wanton, empowered by her womanhood.

He caressed her gently with his fingertip, trailing a path across her face to the corner of her lips, then back to her ear. “You appear more content, more relaxed.”

“I am.” She reached up to touch his cheek, running her fingers tenderly over the dark, rough stubble on his jaw.

He moved closer, joining her on the table. She wondered idly if it would hold their weight, then realized with a laugh that she didn’t much care. All that mattered was being with him.

Bethan nestled against his warmth as he wrapped his arms around her and brought her into his embrace. In the perfection of that moment Bethan realized she had finally found the safe place she had always feared she would never find. Here, in Haydn’s arms, the possibilities of her life seemed endlessly joyful. Because she loved him.

Deep within the secret of her heart she longed for the day when he would return that love. Ever practical, ever realistic, she knew that day might never come.

She felt a sharp stab of sadness, but shook it away. No matter what happened, she knew she would always love him. And no one could ever take that away from her.

 

Bethan frowned as she entered her bedchamber. Her thoughts were on the hall moot to be held tomorrow, where local issues would be decided. She worried that she would be unable to sit calmly, passively as her stepfather sat in judgment of the villeins. Perhaps she should ask Haydn to intervene, even though it would be difficult for him to express an opinion contrary to de Bellemare. Still, something needed to be done to protect her people from the Lord of Lampeter’s barbaric sense of justice.

She was so preoccupied with her troubles that she was at first unaware of her husband’s presence in the chamber. He stood in the far corner of the room, his back toward the door. She opened her mouth to call out a greeting, but before she had a chance to speak she saw him lift the object he held in his hands and raise it to his face.

A strange, forbidden sense of danger washed over her. In silence, she crept forward, peering closer for a better look. A rabbit. Haydn held a rabbit in his hands. But why?

Her uneasiness grew and then suddenly, shockingly Haydn pressed the wiggling animal to his mouth and sank his teeth into the hare’s neck. It squealed, twitched, then shook, struggling to break free.

Terror clutched at Bethan’s heart. For a long moment she stood and stared in dumbstruck silence, refusing to believe what her eyes and ears revealed. Haydn was suckling the blood from the animal while it still lived, swallowing every drop.

Bethan closed her eyes, slowed her breath. She fought the pain, but was unable to hide the truth from herself. She had read a description of this very act so often it was vividly committed to memory. Witnessing it now was a verification of a truth she could hardly believe, was loath to accept.

Haydn was a vampire! A vampire!

Her heart was pounding so hard the sound thundered in her ears. She stumbled backward, but must have made a noise, for his head turned sharply in her direction.

“Bethan?”

His voice sounded rough, gravelly. He looked the same and yet…her gaze was pulled to the small, dark red smear at the corner of his mouth.

“Blood,” she whispered. Her right hand moved and she hastily made the sign of the cross.

Haydn wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then tried to disarm her with a smile. But as his lips parted, she saw the fangs of his teeth, stark white except for the hint of blood that clung to the tips.

“My God, don’t come near me!” Bethan screamed. She lifted the pitcher of wine she held in her left hand and with all her might threw it at him. It hit the stone floor and shattered, splattering wine everywhere.

“Bethan, calm down.”

Haydn stepped over the mess on the floor and moved toward her. Dazed, she took a step back. Only one, for she was too astonished, too horrified by what she had discovered to command her limbs.

“Unnatural beast! You lied to me! You betrayed me!” She let out a broken cry, hurting from the depths of her soul. “I trusted you! I believed you would help us finally break free of de Bellemare’s cruelty. But you are just like him. An unnatural creature of darkness and evil.”

Haydn paled slightly. “No! You misunderstand. I am not like de Bellemare.”

“There is no misunderstanding. I saw you bite that hare, I heard you suckle the blood from the wound you made like a babe drinks milk from his mother’s breast.” She spoke in a trembling voice, laced with pain and anger. “My ears have not deceived me. My eyes have not deceived me.”

She had trusted him. She had confided in him. What a fool! She should have been wiser, smarter, less innocent and foolish. She had given him her affection, her body. She had given it all willingly, joyfully, and with utter abandon.

She had loved him. And he had betrayed her. Bethan’s muscles began to shake and she felt her legs threatening to give way beneath her. Haydn grabbed her and pulled her close. For a second she allowed his strength to keep her standing. But she was no longer fooled by his expression of concern.

She backed out of his embrace as though it burned her to feel his touch. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Kill you?” His silver eyes narrowed. The pupils shifted and for an instant, his eyes flared with red. “I could. Or I could turn you, and make you as I am. Which frightens you more, I wonder?”

Her eyes began to water, but she refused to give in to the tears. She needed to think, to plan, to somehow make this right. But all she seemed capable of doing was to stare at Haydn in despair. “It feels like I have walked into a hideous nightmare from which I shall never awaken.”

“Bethan,” he muttered, reaching out to her. “You have nothing to fear from me. I am the same as I was before you discovered this truth. It changes nothing.” His breath hissed between his teeth. “Christ’s blood, there is no need to stare at me as if I were a monster.”

A sob twisted out of her throat. “But you are a monster, a soulless villain, no different from my murderous stepfather.”

“I am not.” His voice was low and taut. “I do not prey on humans as he does, I do not gain pleasure by showing cruelty to others, I do not revel in another’s pain and suffering.”

“Does he know that you are one of his kind?”

“No.” Haydn shook his head, his gaze locked on hers. “He knew of my parents and killed them because he feared they would try to stop him from building his empire of power. I was not at the manor on the night he attacked. I think he suspected I might have been taken as a prisoner. I believe that is why he ordered so many killed when you rescued me. De Bellemare wanted to make sure I was destroyed.”

“So that part is true? You came here for revenge?”

Something fierce leapt in his eyes. “Yes. I never promised anything else. I agreed to marry you because it was the only way to stay at Lampeter within de Bellemare’s presence. From the beginning, I informed you I would not stay after my task was completed.”

“And bedding me?”

“That was your choice.”

The bitterness of that statement made her lift her chin and stare into his eyes. “I never would have allowed it if I had known the truth.”

“Are you certain?”

Bethan stiffened, her throat clogging tightly. It was unnerving to realize that though she might wish to hide it, deny it, her body had craved his, her desire for him had been strong and complete. Remembering the passion they had shared sent a wave of confusion through her, followed quickly by a stab of fear when she thought of the consequences. “What if I am carrying your child?”

He looked taken aback by her question. “There is hardly cause for worry.”

“Not worry? Are you mad? How will I ever tolerate giving birth to an unnatural, evil creature?”

“You would hate an innocent babe?”

His words brought on more confusion, for the hurt in his tone was unmistakable. “I would fear it,” she answered honestly.

“Then you must look to your precious book for answers. Amazingly, it does contain some correct facts. A full-blooded vampire is unable to produce a viable child with a human female. You have no cause to worry. Or fear.”

She shook her head and almost grinned in nervous agitation. Nothing to fear! Saints above, she was so frightened she did not know what to do. Everything she thought she knew, thought she believed had just crashed and crumpled before her. She could feel the tears sliding down her cheeks, all the more powerful because they were silent.

She closed her eyes, flinching from the ferocity on Haydn’s face. Why was he so angry? Clearly she was the one who had been wronged, deceived.

“I am expected on the practice field. ’Tis unwise to be late.” He reached beyond her and picked up his sword. “We will talk of this later.”

Temples throbbing, she walked to the window and stared blindly outside. She valiantly tried to analyze the situation with some calm, but her mind and body failed to cooperate. Feeling ready to collapse, Bethan covered her face with her hands.

The man she loved was a vampire. A demon. Something unnatural, unholy. How could she love such a creature, a monster?

Bethan’s eyes burned as the tears continued to fall and the true extent of her emotions surfaced.

How could she not?

For Haydn, the next two days passed in a haze of guilt and remorse. Bethan avoided him, speaking only when it was necessary, barring the door of their chamber at night, forcing him to stay elsewhere. He knew it would not help to brood over what could not be changed, but that did not ease his frustration.

In an odd way, it was almost a relief to finally have the truth revealed. He knew this was coming, had realized soon after he acknowledged to himself the depth of his feelings for Bethan that this was to be his fate.

He would forever love a woman who would never accept him. And what he was, an unnatural creature of darkness and evil as she so bitterly declared, could never be changed. Haydn admitted there was no one to blame but himself. He knew better than to allow himself to feed inside the castle, where there was a chance he might be seen. But he had grown complacent, comfortable within the walls of their bedchamber, and his carelessness had been his undoing.

In one way he hated that he had been caught, that his secret had been revealed in such a crude manner. Yet far worse, his mistake had caused Bethan great pain and for that he was truly sorry. It hurt remembering the agitation in her voice, the fear on her face. He could not change who he was, what he was, but he would have done anything within his power to spare Bethan this agony.

Seeing her pain had cut him in a way he had not thought possible. He had tried to apologize, but her agony was too raw, her sorrow too fresh for her to contemplate forgiveness.

Perhaps in time…? Haydn let out a grunt of laughter at his foolish thoughts. The passage of time would make no difference, would bring no comfort. All he could do now was fulfill his promise to Bethan, to complete the task he had vowed to accomplish by coming to Lampeter.

He must destroy Agnarr de Bellemare. It was the least he owed his wife.

 

The sleepy guards at the town gates gave Haydn a passing nod as he rode out. The loneliness he felt at his estrangement from Bethan was especially acute tonight. Perhaps the solitude of the darkness would ease his pain, the thrill of the hunt in the thick woods beyond the castle walls would focus his restless energy on something besides his torment.

Securing his mount to a thick tree at the edge of the forest, Haydn continued on foot, sprinting through the dense foliage, his senses attuned to the life pulsing around him.

The hunt would serve two purposes, to occupy his mind and nourish his body. Fresh blood was necessary for him to build his strength, to keep his senses on alert for the coming confrontation with de Bellemare. And after being discovered by Bethan, Haydn had vowed never to feed again within the castle walls.

He slowed his pace, listened, sniffed, and caught the scent of a deer. Pleased with the discovery, he began to track his prey. A scurrying noise drew his attention to a dense thicket of bramble off to his left. A twig snapped and Haydn drew his bow, making ready to let an arrow fly. He would strike the deer in the leg, preventing it from swift flight. Once it was captured, he could feast at leisure on the nutritious blood, slowly, painlessly, draining it, yet stopping while the animal still clung to life.

He peered around the trunk of a large oak, poised to shoot, yet Haydn saw not a deer, but a young boy of eight or nine, a brace of rabbits clutched in his hand. Haydn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then heard a sharp intake of breath as the lad discovered him.

With a frightened shriek, the boy turned and ran but after a handful of steps was forced to stop. The area was thick with underbrush on all sides, making it impossible to flee with any speed. Haydn stepped from behind the tree trunk, and the lad’s eyes opened wide, darting nervously from him to the vast stretch of forest that surrounded them on all sides.

“You cannot outrun me,” Haydn cautioned in a low voice. “’Twould be foolish to try.”

The boy trembled with indecision. It was illegal to poach in the lord’s woods, an offense punishable by death. At least if he ran, he might have a chance of escape.

Haydn could feel his tension, smell his fear. He quickly, too, became aware of the isolation of their predicament. It was within his power to dispense justice however he saw fit. No one would be the wiser and he doubted the lad would ever breathe a word of what had happened, fearing for his life.

But there was something else to consider. The tender blood of a human victim would bring Haydn added strength. The lad was young, his flesh, though dirty, would be sweet and pure. The additional strength of drinking human blood could make the difference in defeating de Bellemare.

Haydn lunged forward, then stopped, his hand on the trunk of the large tree. He took a long, deep breath. Control. He needed control, he needed the strength to discipline his urges.

“For…forgive me, my lord,” the lad whispered, and then he burst into frightened tears.

The bloodlust inside him quickly faded as he mastered his urges. Haydn’s lips twitched. “If I turn my back, then I cannot be a witness to one who steals from his master,” he said casually.

Hoping the boy possessed the wits to understand, Haydn leisurely pivoted on his heel. There was a rustle of underbrush, followed by the snapping of several twigs. Haydn slowly counted to ten, then turned back. The boy was gone, the only hint of his presence the brace of rabbits set on the forest floor.

With a grim smile, Haydn retrieved the animals. They were still warm. Placing them near his mouth, he feasted on the blood, feeling the strength return to his body with each swallow. When he had drained them both, he walked to his horse and left the protection of the deep woods.

Riding back through the village, he dropped the now bloodless hares on the doorstep of the first cottage, knowing the inhabitants would be too grateful for the unexpected bounty to question their odd state. Then with a heavy sigh he returned to the castle and his lonely sleeping spot in front of the fireplace in the great hall.

 

The following morning Haydn arose with a new sense of purpose. After breaking his fast with a small piece of hard cheese and a tankard of ale, he went in search of his wife. She was quickly found, rushing from their chamber, her brow creased with worry.

At the sight of her, the air boiled with tension. Yet as he drew closer something inside him cracked and melted. She looked tired and sad. He wanted to reach out, to touch her hair, to soothe her hurts. Instead, he straightened, leaving his arms hanging by his side.

“I have spent this night pondering my next move,” he told her. “’Tis past time that I confronted de Bellemare. The longer I wait, the harder it will be. I must destroy him, before he destroys us.”

Bethan nodded her head. “That is what I have come to tell you. I think I have found the entrance to his secret lair.”

“Show me.”

“We must act quickly. Sir Colwyn told me de Bellemare left the castle less than an hour ago. He is not expected back until later.”

“He has probably gone outside to hunt for fresh prey,” Haydn speculated aloud.

He saw her shudder and cursed his unguarded tongue, knowing his words were a stark reminder to his beloved exactly what sort of perverted creature her stepfather was—the same demon vampire breed as himself.

She stiffened her spine, but said nothing. Quietly he followed her, fully expecting to be taken on a strange, twisting route down long, winding corridors, but instead Bethan went through the great hall, then turned down a short side corridor. To the left was an unassuming door.

Surprised, he turned to Bethan. “Are you sure this is it?”

“Yes. ’Twas most clever of him to keep it in plain sight. I’m sure the door is hardly noticed by anyone, including me. The servants are so fearful of de Bellemare they would never dare to venture anywhere unless given specific permission.”

“An element of surprise should give me the advantage.” He reached for the latch.

“Wait!” she cried, covering his hand with her own. “What if we are wrong? What if de Bellemare is down there now?”

“If he is down there, he is alone, especially if he has brought a victim to feast upon. If not, I will lie in wait for him. Either way, I will have the element of surprise and the opportunity to confront him without his guards.”

“And if you are wrong?”

Haydn’s mouth twisted into a grim line of determination. “I cannot afford to be wrong.”

He tried the door, not entirely surprised to find it open without protest, for he suspected it was well used by de Bellemare. Haydn took a step forward, then turned, sensing Bethan close behind.

“I am coming, too,” she announced before he had a chance to question her.

“No!” he exclaimed, his heart jolting in his chest. “’Tis far too dangerous.”

“I can help.”

“You will distract me.”

“I know I can help,” she insisted.

“Bethan, I have never doubted your courage or your wisdom, but this is something I must do on my own.” He reached out to smooth away a tendril of golden hair that hung across her brow. “Stay here.”

Giving her no chance to protest, he walked through the door and closed it behind him. Worried that she might follow, Haydn waited for several minutes to ensure that she obeyed him. When he was certain she remained on the other side, he turned. Directly in front of him was a set of stone stairs.

He descended quietly, embracing the darkness, his sharp eyes focusing through the inky blackness. As he moved, he kept his attention on his surroundings, watching, listening. The warning signs that prickled his keen sense of danger grew stronger with each step. He took a deep breath and slowly drew his sword.

After several minutes, he entered a dank, musty, vaulted stone crypt and knew he was getting close. He could feel de Bellemare’s presence, could sense that his enemy was near. He let his gaze roam the room, not liking the stillness of the place. Closing his eyes, Haydn trained his senses to search the darkness for his quarry.

But it was elusive. Perhaps de Bellemare was not here now, perhaps it was the essence of his evil spirit that clung to every stone that was causing these sensations. Frustrated, Haydn slowly opened his eyes and strained his gaze forward. He saw only shadows, until suddenly there was a slight shift of movement.

Too late, he realized his mistake. A wall of darkness rose before him a mere second before he felt the stunning blow of a heavy sword hilt smash into the side of his skull. He went down on one knee, struggling to remain conscious, trying to shake off the burst of pain and light that exploded inside his head, but to no avail.

His eyes opened one final time at the sound of chilling laughter and the last thing he saw was a gleam of satisfaction coupled with evil, black intent blazing in Agnarr de Bellemare’s eyes.

And then, nothing.

 

Bethan knew that Haydn was right. ’Twas best for her, safer for her to stay behind. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, crossed them again. Tapped her foot, then began pacing, her strides quickening with each step. Stopping suddenly, she pressed her ear flat against the wooden door, but heard nothing. Perhaps if she opened it a mere crack…

Once the door was open, the floodgates of her anxious curiosity were breached. With small cautious steps, she went through, following the same path as Haydn.

It was dark as pitch. Bethan ran her hand along the wall as a guide, taking each step slowly, carefully. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom, though she could see very little.

Finally she spied something promising, an open area that held a large stone crypt. Its perimeter was lined with thick pillars of stone, like some ancient pagan temple. Hovering in the shadows behind one of them, Bethan leaned forward, her eyes straining in the darkness.

It was then she noticed a prone figure lying in the center of the room. She whispered an earnest prayer, waiting to see if there was any movement, any sign of life.

“Haydn?”

She moved forward, then stumbled to her knees as something grasped her ankle.

“Ah, ’tis little Bethan. I was hoping you would come.”

Stark terror seized her as she heard de Bellemare’s voice and realized it was his hand that held her like an iron cuff. She shook her leg violently, wrenching against that biting hold, fighting to free herself, but was no match for his unnatural strength. He pulled her forward, the wretched sound of his laughter ringing in her ears.

Terrified, she renewed her struggles, her fingers scraping vainly at the hard stone floor, the nails breaking, the tips bleeding.

“Mother Mary, save me,” she prayed tearfully.

“How quaint. You pray to your weak God to deliver you from evil.”

He took her by the wrist and hauled her to her feet, his strong fingers gripping her so tightly they left bruises. She jolted back, but could barely move away. De Bellemare’s eyes glowed with bloodlust, cruel in their intensity.

“What have you done to Haydn?” she asked.

“He is merely stunned. For now.” He dragged his attention away from Haydn’s limp body. “He fooled me at first, but not for long. I know what he is, who he is, and I know he must be destroyed.”

“He is younger and stronger,” Bethan cried. “’Tis you who will be defeated.”

“Youth is hardly an advantage among vampires. Those with greater powers are the more experienced of our kind.”

“His powers are far greater than you can ever imagine.”

“Such lies, Bethan. I always did admire your spirit, however misguided your motivation. For a time I even considered turning you, so you could be my mate. Yet in the end I knew I would never be able to fully trust you. Pity, you, too, must be destroyed.” He lifted his hand to touch her face and she flinched away. Her defiance seemed to amuse him. He gave her a wicked, leering grin, full of arrogance and malicious satisfaction.

Bethan’s heart was racing, her breathing erratic and shallow. Yet she struggled to keep de Bellemare talking, knowing it was their only chance, knowing she needed to buy some time for Haydn to recover and come to her aid. Then miraculously, as if he’d heard her silent plea, Haydn’s deep voice came from behind a pillar on the opposite side of the chamber.

“Leave her alone, de Bellemare! This fight is between you and me.”

Bethan turned her head toward the sound, relieved to hear him, yet terrified of what would come next. The Lord of Lampeter laughed as he took a small step toward the center of the chamber. With a harsh shove, he pushed Bethan away from him and then quickly drew his sword.

He charged Haydn with a roar. In the space of mere moments, de Bellemare delivered five strong blows. Metal clashed on metal as Haydn caught de Bellemare’s blade upon his, the hideous noise echoing through the cavernous chamber.

Bethan’s nerves coiled into springs as she watched the two battle. De Bellemare fought with the frenzied strength of a demon, but Haydn steadily deflected the attack. They seemed evenly matched in skill and strength, though de Bellemare’s larger, more muscular frame seemed to give him an advantage.

Haydn’s face wore a strange, remote look, but his silver eyes glittered with fierce determination and resolve. Their grunts and heavy breathing soon filled the chamber as they sought to bring each other down. With a lightning move, Haydn leapt forward, striking a heavy blow that drove de Bellemare into the shadows.

Grunting and groaning, de Bellemare managed to parry the attack, and then suddenly he turned, twirled, and struck from below. The tip of his sword caught Haydn’s sleeve, tearing it from elbow to shoulder.

The red stain quickly appeared. Bethan’s nostril’s tingled with the coppery scent of blood. Seemingly unconcerned, Haydn flexed his shoulder, rubbed it, then wiped his bloody palm across his tunic.

“I have drawn first blood,” de Bellemare taunted. “Next I will plunge my steel through your heart, and then I will delight in feasting upon it before I burn the paltry remains of your flesh.”

“I suppose you can try,” Haydn answered grittily.

He lifted his broadsword with both hands and swung it was such speed that de Bellemare barely caught it with his sword. Enraged, de Bellemare lunged forward with a piercing battle cry, raining blows that Haydn struggled to deflect.

Time and again, they engaged and retreated and Bethan could see they were beginning to tire. Sweat poured from their foreheads and dripped onto the floor and their breath came in heavy bellows. As Haydn angled his blade to deflect the next blow, de Bellemare suddenly whirled around and drove a knee into his groin. Haydn doubled over, then dropped to the floor with a leaden thud. The sword fell from his grip, clattering ominously on the floor.

“You see, I am the superior being,” de Bellemare taunted as he slashed his sword over Haydn’s thigh, cutting deeply into the flesh. Then he moved in for the kill, his teeth showing in a satisfied smile.

Her heart hammering with terror, Bethan saw Haydn twist on his side and reach for his fallen sword. Surging up to his knees, he grasped the handle and somehow positioned the weapon. As his enemy lunged forward, Haydn uttered a hoarse cry and thrust his blade upward, deep into de Bellemare’s chest, directly piercing his heart. His evil face registered surprise as he twitched, then toppled over, landing on his back.

Bethan screamed. Running across the floor, she fell to her knees beside her husband. She was shaking so badly her teeth were chattering. Haydn might be the victor in this brutal fight, but he was badly wounded and bleeding profusely. She lifted her gown and ripped away the undertunic, using the material to stanch the blood that oozed out of his shoulder and onto the floor.

“My leg,” he croaked.

“What?” He sounded as if he were being strangled. She leaned closer to hear him. “The wound on my leg is more serious.”

Bethan glanced down and saw there was blood soaking his hose. She ripped the skirt of her overgown for a second bandage and attended to the wound. He grunted, groaned, but he did not jerk away from her.

It was painful to look at his face, to see his anguish and suffering. Tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away and continued. “There. I think I have stopped the bleeding. But we must get to our bedchamber so I may clean and dress the wounds properly. Can you stand?”

“Not yet.”

She risked another glance at him. He was pale, sweaty, smeared with blood. She worried that there might be other injuries, ones that she could not see, ones that were even more serious. A helpless feeling of despair stole over her and the tears continued to fall.

“What should we do?” she whispered in anguish.

A muscle twitched in Haydn’s jaw and it took a moment for him to reply. “You must act quickly and dispose of de Bellemare’s body.”

“How?”

“Bury him. In the deepest grave that can be dug. Find Sir Colwyn and give him the order yourself. It must be done before nightfall.”

“Must we remove…remove his head?” she asked, her voice quivering.

“’Tis unnecessary. A blow struck with a blade directly in his heart has effectively ended de Bellemare’s existence. However, you must not allow anyone to remove my sword. It shall be buried with him, with the silver thrust into his heart, or else he may rise again. Do you understand?”

Bethan nodded and struggled to force down the rush of panic that threatened to overtake her. “What of his guard? Will they try to stop us?”

Haydn shook his head. “No. His power over them ended when the fatal blow was struck.”

“And my mother? Will she always remain weak and sickly?”

“She will improve over time. But she was a host for many, many years. She will never fully recover.”

For one long minute, Bethan kept her gaze trained on Haydn. His eyes kept drifting closed, slower each time. She was terrified to leave him, yet knew she had to follow his instructions, had to finish what he had started and bury the body.

“I need to get Sir Colwyn,” she said. “Will you be all right if I leave you for a few minutes?”

His eyes fluttered open. He cursed, then gave her a rueful smile. “If I did not know any better, I would think you were concerned about me, dear wife.”

Bethan let out a choked laugh. Now was hardly the time to examine her feelings for Haydn. “I shall return,” she said softly.

He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. Knowing there was no more time to waste, Bethan gave him a final, reassuring touch. Then she stood and ran from the chamber.

 

Haydn recovered slowly. His wounds healed far more quickly than any mortal man’s, yet they were deep and severe and it took over a week before he was able to rise from his bed.

Bethan was a constant presence. She tended his wounds, brought him food, even procured the fresh animal blood he needed to survive and properly heal. She was polite and gentle, yet there was a distance in her eyes, a guarded, reserved edge to her manner.

He did not doubt that she cared for him, perhaps even loved him. But she also did not forgive him, nor did she understand what he had done and why he had done it.

Lying in his bed, with nothing to do but think, Haydn contemplated his future as he revisited his past. His victory over de Bellemare closed a chapter of his life, yet opened a new one. Would he now move forward with Bethan at his side?

He suffered no doubts that she was the most suitable female to be his mate. He respected her more than any other individual he had ever known. She was intelligent and kind, with an unmatched inner strength and courage. He admired her fortitude and resolve, he delighted in her beauty and grace.

She was his. Deep inside he knew it, though he also acknowledged staying together might be impossible.

As a misty gray light heralded the dawn, Haydn rose slowly from his bed, restless from spending too much time lying on his back. He dressed himself in a loose-fitting tunic and hose, then donned a pair of boots, securing a knife inside.

Silently, he walked the castle hallways, committing it all to memory. There were few servants about, yet the atmosphere was markedly changed. The dark, oppressive presence of Agnarr de Bellemare was gone, replaced with a palpable feeling of lightness and hope. Haydn experienced a sense of pride and accomplishment, knowing he was in part responsible.

There was more activity in the great hall, as the fires in the enormous fireplace were banked and the trestle tables were being arranged for the morning meal. He saw several women clustered together. Even with her back toward him, one in particular was most familiar.

Bethan.

Haydn waited for her to finish giving her orders. When she came toward him, he stepped from the shadows, until they stood toe-to-toe, with barely an inch between them.

“Haydn! Goodness, you startled me.” She lifted her brow. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I wanted to speak with you. I have healed well, thanks to your devoted care. I shall be leaving in a few days.”

“Are you certain?”

“’Tis time, Bethan.”

She frowned. “We will miss you.”

“Perhaps. But mostly I think you will be glad this is all over.”

She was silent. He gazed into the pain and doubt in her lovely eyes, and finally admitted to himself that gratitude, devotion, and respect were not enough. Love was not enough. He could spend a lifetime trying to regain her trust, only to fail at the endeavor. And without trust, their relationship was doomed.

“I never once deliberately deceived you, Bethan,” he said, compelled to make some kind of explanation.

She heaved an emotional sigh. “You omitted a most important fact, Haydn. One I still find difficult to comprehend.”

“I cannot change who I am, what I am.”

“I know.” Her eyes were fathomless pools, yet he could read the sadness in them. Frustrated, he glanced away. It tore at his heart to witness her pain.

He felt her move and knew she was turning to walk away. Unable to stop himself, Haydn reached for her, pulling her into his arms. He dipped his head and kissed her as he had never done before, with a desperate, fierce, possessive wildness.

Aggressively he parted her lips and plundered her mouth, one hand tangled in her hair to prevent her escape. He could taste the passion on her lips, the desire, could feel the yielding of her body. But not the acceptance of her spirit.

Slowly, regretfully, he let her go. Bethan bit her lower lip as she pulled back from him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Haydn’s heart stilled. His eyes burned into hers.

“Whatever else you believe, Bethan, know this and know it well. I love you. I love you now, and will continue to love you for all eternity.”

Then he turned and limped away.

“Sir Colwyn said that Lord Meifod will depart within the hour,” Lady Caryn remarked as she pulled the scarlet embroidery thread through the cloth she held on her lap. “Are you going with him?”

Bethan’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Of course I shall not go with him. Honestly, Mother, how can you ask such a thing?”

Lady Caryn shrugged her shoulders. “He is your husband. Your place is by his side.”

“My place is here, with my family and my people.”

“Though I am not as strong as I once was, I am perfectly capable of taking charge,” Lady Caryn replied. “We have good, loyal soldiers who will keep us safe and hardworking people who are joyful at being freed from de Bellemare’s tyranny. Lampeter is once again a fine place to live.”

“’Tis not only to run things that I am staying.” A muscle worked spasmodically in Bethan’s throat. “You know what Haydn is, Mother. I told you everything. He is a vampire. A creature of darkness and evil, like de Bellemare. I am shocked you would dare to suggest that I go with him.”

Lady Caryn sighed. “I confess to knowing very little about his kind, but I do know one thing with great certainty. The Warrior of the North is nothing like Agnarr de Bellemare.”

“He betrayed me!” Bethan cried. “I can never trust him, never look at him without feeling a crushing sense of loss.”

“’Tis not too late. He loves you, Bethan. And you love him. Go to him. Quickly, before he leaves.”

Shaking her head vehemently, Bethan turned away, hugging her arms around her waist, trying to control the tremors of emotions that shook her body. “Our feelings do not matter. I can never be a part of his world.”

“There is a way.” Bethan looked over and saw a gleam of excitement in her mother’s eyes. “Haydn can transform you, he has the power to make you one of his kind. I asked Father William to check the book and he said ’tis possible for an immortal to turn another.”

Bethan’s hands curled into shaking fists. She was well acquainted with the passage her mother spoke of, for Bethan had read it so many times herself she could recite the words from memory.

“I shall be eternally damned,” she whispered.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I know not what to believe about God and salvation. I only know that while I was with de Bellemare, I lived in hell while on earth. And your Haydn was the one who released me from that hell. Surely that must mean something.”

“Do not romanticize it. ’Twas a fight, Mother, between two enemies. Haydn emerged victorious because he was younger and stronger.”

“Or had more to protect,” Lady Caryn insisted. “Agnarr de Bellemare fought to hold on to his power, but Haydn fought to keep you safe. Haydn fought for love.”

Bethan shook her head. “It was revenge. De Bellemare destroyed Haydn’s parents.”

Yet even as the words left her mouth, she knew she spoke but part of the truth. Haydn had defeated the Lord of Lampeter to save Bethan and her people. He had done it because he loved her.

Lady Caryn reached for her daughter’s hand and held it tightly. “Even as a child you had courage. How I admired your spirit, your strength. So often it gave me the will to carry on when I believed in my heart that we were all doomed. I beg of you, reach within yourself and find that spirit. If not, you shall end your days a sad and bitter woman.”

The uncertainty of her future wavered in Bethan’s mind. It was wrong, most likely sinful, to contemplate becoming an immortal and the very idea of it frightened her dreadfully. “How can I even consider consigning myself to such a fate, to willingly become a creature of darkness?”

“How can you not?” Lady Caryn gave her a trembling smile. “For so many years you have fought for me, fought for our people. Now ’tis time to think of yourself. He made you happy, Bethan. Think long and hard before you toss away this chance at happiness, this gift of love.”

Bethan pushed the doubts and fears from her mind and contemplated the feelings of her heart. She envisioned her days without him, the bleak years of loneliness stretching before her. A single sob escaped and Bethan covered her mouth.

The aching in her heart propelled her feet forward, down the stairs, though the great hall, out the front doors, toward the stables. Rain began to fall, but Bethan ignored it, moving forward as quickly as her heavy skirts would allow.

By the time she was within sight of the stables, the curtain of falling rain was thick and pounding, nearly blinding. Yet Bethan pushed herself forward, ignoring the pelting raindrops and the wind whipping at her gown, searching through the deluge for Haydn.

Thunder rumbled and lightning split the sky and suddenly she saw him, in a blaze of light. He stood alone, in the open stable doorway. Powerful, proud, noble. Sensing her presence, he turned. Their eyes met and raw emotion seared her soul.

She would never love anyone as much as she loved Haydn, would never want for anything, care for anything, need anything as much as him. Bethan swallowed hard, blinking back the tears she swore she would not shed.

Haydn remained as he was, standing still and silent, his handsome face an impassive mask, the raging storm swirling around him like a tempest. Waiting. Waiting for her to come to him.

“I want to hate you,” she confessed, shouting to be heard above the storm.

He lowered his chin in the slightest acknowledgment. “You have the right.”

“I want to hate you, yet I cannot. I deliberately avoided you and kept myself busy from dawn to dusk, feeling such exhaustion by evening that I could almost fall asleep standing on my feet. Yet when I closed my eyes at night, you were what I saw. No matter what I did, I could never escape it. And now…now far greater than my desire to hate you is the paralyzing fear that once you are gone, I shall never see you again.”

“Come with me.”

It took one small step to be in his arms. With a sob, Bethan clung to Haydn’s powerful frame, burying her face in the crook of his neck, letting his strength seep into her. “I want to be with you always, Haydn, wherever you go, however you live. Please, make me as you are, my dearest.”

He stroked her damp hair and held her close. “I know my days will be bleak and barren without you. But I cannot ask you to sacrifice your humanity for me.”

“I do it because I am selfish, because I love you.” Bethan lifted her hand, pressing her palm over his heart. “I do it for us, Haydn.”

He sighed and leaned his head back. “Are you certain?”

“I am certain of nothing,” she replied honestly. “Except that I love you. And that I need to be with you, to be a part of you. Though I have tried to deny it, you are so deep inside me, you touch my heart.”

Haydn captured her face in his hands. “’Tis not what you have known, but we can have a good marriage, a solid partnership.” His face drew closer until his lips brushed hers in a gentle kiss. “I will do all within my power to ensure that you never regret this choice.”

Bethan leaned into him, pressing herself firmly against his side. “Do it,” she urged. “Turn me now, before I lose my courage.”

He pulled her inside the stable, toward a secluded corner, and she willingly followed. Shielded from any passing eye, Haydn gathered Bethan within the circle of his arms. His lips moved lightly across her skin and Bethan instinctively arched her neck to allow his mouth greater access.

She felt his breath over the artery in her neck and she tensed, but he nuzzled and kissed her gently. Bethan’s fear began to fade and then suddenly she felt a sharp burst of intense pain at the base of her throat. Her body convulsed. She threw herself protectively forward, thrashing wildly, but Haydn had her locked in an iron grip.

Sweet Mother of God, Bethan thought, trying desperately to find her breath. ’Tis a miracle that anyone can survive such a thing!

The edge of her panic was distracted by the sound of an odd suckling noise. Slowly, the pain diminished and a languor descended over her entire body. She tried to reach up to touch Haydn’s face, but her arm felt heavy as a stone.

“Is it over? I feel so strange,” she croaked out weakly.

“Let yourself go, Bethan. I will keep you safe.”

The sound of Haydn’s voice calmed her. Bethan sighed, feeling the shadows and darkness flood into her vision. Her eyes closed. She knew then that she was drifting away, leaving this life and heading toward another. Sighing, she gave herself over to the sensations, trusting Haydn to make it right.

“Drink.”

Responding to the command, she obediently swallowed. The coppery taste of the warm liquid invaded her entire being, bringing forth a new strength and awareness.

Bethan’s lashes fluttered, her eyes opened, and Haydn’s handsome, smiling face suddenly appeared before hers. Amazingly, a single tear streaked down his face.

“Are you crying?” she asked as she reached out to brush away the moisture on his cheek.

“With joy,” he assured her, staring deeply into her eyes. He gently stroked his fingers against the wound at her nape, then lowered his head to her lips for a slow, passionate kiss.

Bethan eagerly responded, kissing him back with all the love and happiness that swelled her heart.

Finally, she was at peace.