She cried for hours after she returned home, and all the while she berated herself for her foolishness. He had never led her to believe he was anything more than mildly fond of her. She had amused him with her naivete, nothing more. She had laid her heart bare, and he had scorned it, and her.
She would not humiliate herself in such a fashion again. And she would marry for love, or she would not marry at all.
Clinging to that thought, she fell asleep.
The maze rose up in the night, a twisting wall of greenery that separated her from the rest of the world.
Drawn into its heart, she collapsed near the statue of the bronze wolf. She drew a deep breath, and her nostrils filled with the scent of roses. Only then did she notice that they were no longer red.
Dozens of blooms grew on the trees, but they were all black.
Curious, she picked one, gasping as a thorn pricked her finger. A drop of bright red blood oozed from the wound, and suddenly Rayven was there, towering over her, his dark eyes ablaze with an unholy light as he took her hand in his and slowly licked the blood from her finger...
"No!" The sound of her own horrified cry roused her from sleep and she sat up, glancing wildly around the room. "Only a dream," she whispered as she snuggled under the covers again. "Only a dream."
The familiar words hovered in the back of her mind.
"Only a dream..."
She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. With a restless sigh, she sat up and gazed out the window, her mind filling with images of Rayven as she had seen him last, his fathomless black eyes filled with torment. He was lonely, so lonely. Why? He was a handsome man. A wealthy man. Why did he not marry and raise a family? Why did he live in that cold, lonely castle? Why had he sent her away?
She had learned much in the four years she had been away. She had, on rare occasions, flirted with young men. In Paris, she had learned the power of a coy glance, a shy smile, a come-hither look. She knew when a man wanted her. And Rayven wanted her. He had wanted her from the beginning. Why, then, had he turned her away? Why had he bought her in the first place? She had assumed he had wanted her to warm his bed. She wondered now if he had bought her simply for companionship. But surely a man like Rayven had no need to purchase feminine companionship.
She thought of all the strange rumors she had heard about him, about his peculiar habits. Since returning home, she had overheard other things, stories told in hushed whispers that hinted at evil, at bargains made with the devil. Was it possible that the people of the town believed such outrageous tales? Her friends and neighbors were a humble, superstitious people, frightened of what they didn't understand, of what couldn't be easily explained.
Snuggling under the covers once more, she closed her eyes. As much as she had loved Paris, she was not going back.
This was her home. This was where she belonged, and she would not let anyone, not even the master of Castle Rayven, chase her away.
The next day was market day. With her mother's list in hand, Rhianna took the carriage Rayven had bought for her family and went into town. It was good to see familiar country faces again. Because of Rayven's generosity, she was able to purchase fresh bread, prime cuts of meat, and a bottle of fine red wine.
She was sitting in the window of a tearoom, wondering if Rayven would haunt her thoughts forever, when she saw Dallon Montroy. He saw her at the same time. Tipping his hat, he crossed the road, a broad smile on his face. He was as handsome as she recalled. Several women turned to stare at him, their gazes frankly admiring. He wore a coat of dark green broadcloth trimmed in black velvet, buff-colored breeches, and black boots. His linen was impeccable; a diamond stickpin sparkled in his cravat.
"Good afternoon, Miss McLeod." He bowed over her hand. "May I join you?"
"Please do."
"It's been a long time," Dallon said. His gaze moved over her, warm with affection and approval. "Your stay in Paris seems to have agreed with you."
"Thank you, my lord," Rhianna replied, acutely aware of the admiration in his eyes.
"I was sorry to hear about your father," Montroy said. "Is there anything I can do for you or your family?"
"No, thank you. Lord Rayven has been most generous."
"Indeed." Montroy sat back in his chair. "Are you returning to France soon?"
Rhianna shook her head. "No. As much as I loved Paris, I've decided to stay here. It's home, after all."
And Rayven is here.
A slow smile spread over Montroy's face. "That's good news indeed," he said. "There's a new play at the theater. I'd like very much to take you."
"Would you?"
Montroy chuckled softly. "If you'd like to go. And if you think you could tolerate my company for the evening."
"I should like that very much indeed," Rhianna replied. In truth, it would be no hardship to spend time with Montroy. With his dark blond hair and blue eyes, he was quite the most blatantly handsome man she had ever met, and she had met many during the last four years.
"Good. I shall pick you up Saturday at six."
"I'll be ready."
"Very well." Rising to his feet, he took her hand in his. "I hate to leave you, but I have a business appointment." He kissed her hand. "Till Saturday next, Miss McLeod.".
"Till Saturday."
Montroy arrived at six o'clock sharp. Rhianna grinned openly as she introduced him to her sisters. One and all, they stared at him, hardly able to speak coherently as he bowed over their hands.
Even her mother seemed awestruck.
"I'm sorry about my family," Rhianna remarked later, in the carriage. "They've never met anyone quite like you. My youngest sister asked me if you were a prince."
"And what did you tell her?"
"Why, I said you were, of course."
Dallon laughed softly as he took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. "Hardly that."
For a time, they rode in silence. Montroy studied the girl beside him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Four years at school had refined her, given her an aura of self-confidence that she had lacked before. It occurred to him that it was past time for him to marry and father an heir.
He thought of little else during the play. None of the ladies he knew could hold a candle to the young woman sitting beside him. True, she came from a poor family, but he was a wealthy man and the fact that she had no dowry mattered not at all. There was only one drawback that he could see, and that was the fact that everyone in the valley knew Rhianna's father had sold her to Rayven, that she had lived in his house. Dallon didn't care a whit what the people of Millbrae Valley thought, but it would likely cause a stir should his family ever find out.
But he would jump that fence when he came to it.
After the play, he took her out for a late supper. She continued to charm him with her openness, her candor. Flirting came naturally to her; it wasn't something she had learned at school, or studied in front of her looking glass.
By the time his carriage drew up outside her home, his decision had been made.
"Thank you for a lovely evening," Rhianna said.
"It was my pleasure," Dallon replied gallantly. He kissed her hand and then, unable to help himself, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.
Rhianna closed her eyes as his lips touched hers. It was a pleasant kiss, gentle, tender. Unbidden came the thought that, while Montroy's kiss was pleasurable, it had no fire. Comparing Montroy's kiss to Rayven's was like comparing the warmth of a firefly to the warmth of the sun.
His arm tightened around her briefly before he let her go. "Will I see you tomorrow night?"
"If you wish."
"Seven?"
Rhianna nodded.
"Good night, Miss McLeod."
"Good night, my lord."
He came for her promptly at seven the following evening, and every night for a week thereafter. They went to a ball at Lord Tewksbury's, to supper in the city, to another play, to the opera.
As much as she enjoyed Montroy's company, she couldn't help feeling that she didn't belong in the crowd he associated with. They dined with barons and counts. Once, she found herself dancing with an earl. On the outside, she knew she looked as though she belonged. The gowns Rayven had bought her were every bit as costly and fashionable as those of the other women. Thanks to the training she had received at the convent, she knew how to behave at the dinner table, which fork to use with which course, but on the inside, she was still a country girl, unsure of herself, in awe of the highborn men and women who were Montroy's contemporaries.
She said as much one night, at supper.
"Nonsense," Montroy exclaimed. "There's no shame in being born poor."
"But..."
"I'll hear no more of it," Dallon said firmly. He took her hand in his. "You're more beautiful than any of them, Rhianna. You have no need to feel inferior simply because your father was a farmer and not an earl. Don't forget, Gaskell wasn't always an earl. Not all of us are born to our titles."
Rhianna smiled at him, reassured, at least for the moment. "Will I see you tomorrow night?" she asked.
Dallon shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I've agreed to meet Tewksbury and Rayven at Cotyer's."
The mere mention of his name caused a sharp pain in her heart.
"Is something wrong?" Montroy asked. "You look pale of a sudden."
"I feel a headache coming on," Rhianna said apologetically. "Would you mind if we went home?"
"Of course not." He summoned the waiter, took care of the bill, and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders.
Minutes later, she was comfortably settled in his coach, a blanket over her lap. She closed her eyes to discourage any conversation and all the while, in the back of her mind, she heard Montroy's voice telling her he was meeting Rayven tomorrow night. She wished she had the nerve to follow Montroy to Cotyer's so that she might see Rayven again, if only from a distance.
She bid Montroy good night and went into the house. Standing at the window, she watched his coach pull away. Overcome by a terrible sadness, she removed her cloak and went into the bedroom she shared with Lanna. Montroy cared for her. He might even ask for her hand in marriage, but she knew she would never love him as she loved Rayven.
Why had he sent her away? After living at the convent in Paris, she understood what it was like to be lonely, to be different from those around you. She knew, from the rumors she had heard, from things Rayven himself had said, that he felt estranged from society, though she didn't understand why. Was there some incident in his past that made him feel inferior?
She told herself it didn't matter, that she didn't care. He had sent her away, first to Paris, and then away from the castle, sent her away and told her, nay, warned her, never to return.
So be it, she thought, blinking back tears she refused to shed. If he didn't want her, she knew someone who did.
At the invitation of Lady Tewksbury, Montroy escorted Rhianna to a masquerade ball at Tewksbury Hall the next week.
Dallon dressed as Robin Hood, complete with bow and feathered cap. It seemed only natural that Rhianna should go as Maid Marian.
They arrived at eight, had supper at nine. It was after ten when Dallon led her into the ballroom. A huge crystal chandelier cast soft candlelight over the dancers. The orchestra was partially hidden behind a wall of lacy ferns.
She danced with Dallon, and with Tewksbury, and then with Dallon again. He flirted with her shamelessly, declaring her to be the most beautiful woman in the room. His hand caressed her bare shoulders, his lips brushed her cheeks, her eyelids.
Light-headed from too much wine, feeling lonely because Rayven had rejected her, she allowed Dallon to kiss her. She even kissed him back, telling herself it didn't matter. Rayven didn't want her. He had even told her to marry someone else. Why not marry Montroy? He was young and handsome and rich, and he adored her. He would never send her away.
At the end of the waltz, Montroy left her for a moment to fetch her a glass of champagne.
Feeling suddenly warm, Rhianna left the crush inside the ballroom and went out on the balcony that overlooked a rather exotic topiary. A breeze ruffled her skirts and cooled her flushed cheeks.
Away off in the distance, she could see the tall spires of Castle Rayven. In spite of her resolution to put him from her mind, she wondered what Rayven was doing, if he ever spared a thought for her.
A sudden chill caressed her nape, and with it the sense that she was no longer alone.
She whirled around, gasping when she saw a tall man standing in the doorway. He was dressed all in black save for the stark white death's-head mask that covered his face. A wide-brimmed black hat adorned with a curling black feather was pulled low over his brow. A cloak of fine black velvet billowed around him.
He held out his hand. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
His voice caressed her, calling up images of roses and moonlit nights. She never thought to refuse him, but willingly placed her hand in his.
He held her close, his body brushing intimately against hers at every turn. Trapped in the web of his gaze, she let him waltz her around the balcony. The music faded into the distance. The crush of people inside the ballroom ceased to exist. There were only the two of them, dancing beneath a sky sprinkled with stars, and the awareness that crackled between them, as sharp as a sliver of glass.
She gazed into his eyes, fathomless black eyes that stared back at her, eyes that burned with hell's own fires.
Suddenly breathless, she murmured his name.
His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her closer. Her body burned at his nearness; her heart was pounding furiously.
Was it he?
It had to be.
Slowly, he lowered his head toward hers, until the dark eyes blazing from behind the mask burned everything else from her sight, until she saw nothing, was aware of nothing, but the man who held her.
She lifted her face for his kiss, felt the touch of his cool lips scorch a bright path to the very heart and soul of her.
When he drew his mouth from hers, she stared up at him, a curious lethargy stealing through her limbs. If not for the strength of the arms around her, she thought she might have melted at his feet, like butter left too long in the sun.
She wasn't aware that the music had ended until she saw Montroy standing in the doorway.
Her partner bowed over her hand and then, his cloak swirling about him like smoke, he walked away from her to disappear in the darkness at the far end of the balcony.
"Who was that?" Rhianna asked, though she was certain, within her heart, it had been Rayven.
Montroy glanced after the man in the black hat and cloak. "I don't know."
"I thought..."
"Thought what?"
"I thought it was Rayven."
"Rayven? Here?" Montroy chuckled softly as he handed her a glass of champagne. "He loathes masquerades. Loathes parties of any kind. I've never known him to attend one."
"Have you seen him at Cotyer's recently?"
Dallon nodded. "Blast the man. He's impossible to beat, you know. Sometimes I think he knows what cards I've been dealt before I do."
"Indeed?" She stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the heads of the crowd.
"Come," Montroy said. He placed her glass on the balcony railing, then took her hand in his. "I believe this is my dance."
She dreamed of Rayven that night, dreamed that he came into her room, that he was standing beside her bed, his long black cloak enfolding him like loving arms, a hideous mask hiding his face. Not the white mask he had worn to the ball, but a mask with glowing red eyes and sharp white fangs dripping blood.
She woke with a cry on her lips. Or was she still dreaming? She blinked into the darkness. Was he there, in the corner, or was that merely a shadow cast by the moonlight?
Heart pounding, mouth dry, she stared into the darkness of her room. "My lord?"
"Go to sleep, sweet Rhianna."
"Let me see your face."
"You would not like what you see. Sleep now. Sleep, sleep, go to sleep..."
She struggled to stay awake, but could not resist the hypnotic sound of his voice. Her limbs grew heavy; her eyelids refused to stay open.
"Please come to me," she begged, though it was an effort to think, to speak. "I know you're there."
"This is only a dream, Rhianna. Only a dream..."
How could it be a dream, she wondered, if he was telling her to go to sleep?
And then she was asleep, or was she merely dreaming she was asleep? Confused, she tried to call his name, to climb out of the lethargy that was dragging her down, down, into nothingness...
She woke determined to see him again.
In spite of her resolution, it took her a week to get up the nerve to travel the narrow winding road that led up Devil Tree Mountain to Castle Rayven.
She dressed carefully for her journey. The gown she chose was of royal blue velvet. The bodice had a square neck, the sleeves were long and fitted, the skirt was bell-shaped, the hem trimmed with black fur.
She wore her hair down, caught away from her face by two jeweled combs.
Donning a voluminous dark brown cloak, she took a last look in the mirror before leaving her room.
Not wanting her mother or sisters to see her, she tiptoed out the back door, saddled one of the horses, and rode out of the yard.
It was a bit frightening, riding through the night toward Castle Rayven. The trees cast ominous shadows on the road. She felt her heart drop into her stomach as an owll swooped past her head.
Dark clouds gathered overhead, shutting out the moon and the stars. A cold wind rushed down from the mountain, keening sadly as it swept across the land.
She was shivering by the time she reached the castle. Dismounting, she tethered the horse, then climbed the steps and knocked on the door.
Several minutes later, the door opened with a creak.
"Miss McLeod," Bevins exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to visit Lord Rayven."
Bevins looked momentarily taken aback. "No one has ever come to visit before," he remarked in astonishment. "Is Lord Rayven expecting you?"
"No. Is he here?"
Bevins hesitated a moment, then nodded.
"Can I see him?"
Bevins frowned. "Truly, miss, I don't know what to do."
"Is something wrong?"
Bevins took a step forward. "He's been in quite a bad mood, miss," he said, his voice lowered conspiratorially. "I'm not sure that seeing him just now is a good idea."
"Bevins!"
Rhianna jumped back, her eyes widening as Rayven stepped into the hallway.
Very slowly, Bevins turned around to face his master. "Sir?"
"You may go, Bevins," Rayven said, his voice like ice.
"Yes, my lord. Good night, Miss Rhianna."
"Bevins, you have my leave to go."
"Yes, my lord," Bevins said. He sent Rhianna a glance that might have been meant to be reassuring, then hurried down the hallway.
Like statues, Rhianna and Rayven stood staring at each other until the sound of Bevins's footsteps disappeared.
"What are you doing here?" Rayven asked, his voice carefully controlled. His eyes, those depthless black eyes, held hers captive.
"I... that is... I..." She couldn't speak, couldn't think coherently, with him staring at her like that.
She licked lips gone suddenly dry. He looked so angry, so ominous standing there. He wore black, always black, she thought. Had she made a mistake in coming here? Had she been mistaken at the ball?
Perhaps it hadn't been Rayven at the masquerade after all.
He walked down the hallway, rapidly closing the distance between them, until they were only an arm's length apart. "I told you never to return here."
Rhianna nodded. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her cloak and balled them into tight fists to still their trembling. "So you did, my lord."
"Then why are you here?"
She lifted her chin, refusing to let him intimidate her. "If you never wanted to see me again, why did you come to the masquerade? Why did you dance with me?" She took a deep breath. "Why did you kiss me?"
He stiffened. She saw his hands clench at his sides, and knew it was not to still their trembling, but to restrain his anger.
"I know it was you," Rhianna said, "so you needn't try to deny it."
"Leave my house," Rayven said, biting off each word. "Leave now, while you can."
Rhianna looked deep into his eyes. Past the anger lurking there, beneath the harsh timbre of his voice, she sensed the loneliness that plagued him.
"I've missed you, my lord," she said quietly. "I had hoped you missed me."
A muscle twitched in Rayven's jaw. It was the only visible sign of the tension that was spiraling through him. He drew a deep breath, and the scent that was hers assailed his nostrils - the soap she bathed with, the mutton and cheese she'd had for supper, the scent of her hair and skin, the fragrance of her perfume.
He could smell the nervousness that made her heart beat fast, smell the blood that flowed in her veins.
A sharp blast of wind buffeted Rhianna's cloak, its chill breath making her shiver. A moment later, there was a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder, and then it began to rain.
Rayven swore under his breath. Even the elements seemed to be conspiring against him. He took a step back so she could cross the threshold.
"Come in," he said, though there was no warmth in his voice, no welcome in his eyes.
"My horse..."
"Bevins will see to it," Rayven said brusquely. "Come in."
Afraid he might change his mind, Rhianna quickly did as bidden. She unfastened her cloak, felt Rayven's hands at her shoulders as he took it from her and hung it on a wooden clothes peg, then shut the door.
Wordlessly, he walked past her.
She hesitated only a moment, then followed him down the long narrow hallway that led to the library.
How many hours had she sat in this room, reading to him? she wondered. How often had she watched him, wishing he would take her in his arms, that he would kiss her as she had longed to be kissed? Had he known how she felt? Was that why he had sent her away?
She paused in the doorway as a horrible thought crossed her mind. Perhaps he was in love with someone else. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to be bothered with her silly infatuation. Only it wasn't some childish infatuation she felt for him.
He sat down in his favorite chair, his back to her. "Come in, Rhianna," he invited softly.
Feeling suddenly shy, she crossed the floor and took a seat in the chair across from his. It seemed strange to sit there, as if she were his equal. Most nights, she had sat on the floor with her back to the hearth.
She glanced around the room, finding it exactly as it had been the last time she had seen it four years ago. An ancient-looking sword hung over the massive fireplace. A long oak table covered with a black lace cloth stood beneath a pair of tall, stained-glass windows. A narrow shelf made of dark oak held several pewter figurines in the shapes of snarling wolves and ravens in flight. There was no other furniture in the room save for the two high-backed chairs.
"You should not have come here." His voice was low and soft.
"I'm sorry if my presence upsets you."
One corner of his mouth turned down in a wintry smile. "You have no idea what your presence does to me."
"I am most happy to see you again, my lord," Rhianna said candidly. "I had hoped you would feel the same."
"Rhianna, I have longed for you these past four years in ways you cannot begin to imagine."
She shook her head. "Then why are you so angry with me?"
"I am not angry."
He looked angry, she thought. His hands were curled over the arms of the chair, his knuckles white with the strain. His posture was stiff, unyielding. She could almost see the tension radiating from him.
"What is it, then?" she asked.
"I fear you are not safe here."
"Not safe?"
He stared past her, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. It was going to storm all night, he mused bleakly. There was no way he could send her home, not now.
His gaze skimmed her face and figure. She was so beautiful. Her skin was the color of honey; her hair fell down her back in a mass of sun-gold waves. She watched him through guileless blue eyes, her affection for him evident in every glance.
She could not stay here. The years without her had not lessened his desire. He wanted her, burned for her, ached for her in ways unknown to mortal man.
Hunger roared through him. Hunger for her touch, for the very essence of her life.
He felt it rise up within him, demanding to be fed, felt the thirst clawing at his insides. Her nearness, the remembered sweetness of her, magnified his longing, his need for this one woman above all others.
His fingernails dug into the arms of the chair, gouging the wood. His breathing became shallow and erratic. "Rhianna."
"My lord?" She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed as she studied his face. "Are you well, my lord? Can I get you a glass of wine?"
"Go to your room."
"But..."
"Go!"
She didn't argue, didn't waste time saying good night. Bolting from her chair, she fairly flew out of the room and up the stairs to the chamber that had once been hers.
Inside, she locked the door, then stood with her back against the portal, her breath coming in labored gasps.
She had fled from him once before. The memory came surging back, as bright and clear as if it had happened only yesterday instead of years ago. She remembered feeling as though she had escaped a terrible fate that night.
She felt much the same way now.
When her breathing returned to normal, she noticed that the room was just as she had left it. Crossing the floor to the armoire, she opened the elaborately carved double doors. Inside were the dresses she had not taken with her when she left for Paris. She had regretted leaving so many behind, but Rayven had given her more clothes than any one woman could wear in a lifetime.
Closing the doors, she went to the dresser and opened the drawer that had held her nightgowns.
Selecting one, she undressed, drew on the gown.
She was about to climb into bed when she noticed that the full-length mirror Rayven had given her had been covered with a dark cloth.
Curious, she thought, as she removed the cloth. She gazed at her reflection. She had been but fifteen the last time she looked in this mirror. She had grown a little taller, her figure was more rounded, more womanly, but other than that, she looked much the same. She wished suddenly that she was beautiful, that she had curly red hair like her friend at the convent, Leanna, that her eyes were emerald green instead of ordinary blue, that her breasts were larger, her waist smaller. No wonder Rayven had sent her away. Why would he choose her when he could have his pick of beautiful women?
Turning away from the mirror, she drew back the covers and slipped into bed. If the rumors were true, he'd had many, many women, yet he had married none of them. She couldn't help wondering why. Surely a man of his wealth and breeding desired an heir.
A baby, she thought dreamily, a son with Rayven's black hair and eyes. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself as Rayven's wife, the mother of his children.
As he had so many times in the past, he stood beside her bed, watching her sleep. The softness of her skin tempted his touch, and he curled his hands into tight fists to keep from stroking her cheek. How beautiful she was! And how he adored her. The years without her had been the worst torture he had ever endured. He had thought of her daily, hourly, the memory of her face, her laughter, tormenting him far worse than any pain the heat of the sun might hold. The remembered sweetness of her lips, the nectar of her essence, had forever spoiled him for the taste of anyone else.
Ah, how he had burned for her, the yearning within him more excruciatingly painful than the dark hunger that plagued him. Rhianna.
He had watched Montroy dancing with her at Tewksbury's masquerade, and he'd wanted to kill the man, to rip the heart from his chest. Never in all his four hundred-and-thirty-one years had he experienced such blinding jealousy, such hatred, such an intense urge to destroy. He had known it would be a mistake to attend the masquerade, just as he had known, from the minute Montroy had mentioned the ball over drinks at Cotyer's, that he would go. Just to see her. But seeing her had not been enough.
He had wanted, needed, to hold her in his arms.
His fingernails cut into his palms as he fought the urge to gather her into his arms, to kiss the soft curve of her cheek, to run his tongue along her neck...
A red mist rose up before his eyes. Hunger cramped his stomach and ran like molten lava through his veins. He felt his fangs lengthen, felt the urge to feed rise up within him, a ravening beast straining to be released.
"No." The word whispered past his lips. He would not. Could not.
Fear drove him toward the door.
"My lord?"
He stopped, his hands clenched at his sides.
"My lord? Is that you?"
"Go to sleep, Rhianna," he said. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, unleashing the full force of his gaze upon her. "Go to sleep, my sweet, and dream your young girl's dreams while you still can."
She gazed into the dark depths of his eyes and felt a familiar lassitude steal through her. Her eyelids felt unbearably heavy. With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes.
Just before sleep claimed her, she thought she heard the hauntingly lonely cry of a wolf.
