Rhianna huddled under the covers, listening to the clock chime the hour. It was a quarter past four in the morning, and Rayven still hadn't come to bed.
At midnight, she had crept downstairs, hoping to find him sitting in the study, but the room had been dark and empty.
She had found Bevins in the kitchen. He had been sitting at the table, a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders, a large glass of brandy cradled between hands that trembled. Feeling her gaze, he had looked up, then glanced away. But that one haunted look had stilled the questions on her lips. It was the look of a man who had glimpsed the fathomless pits of hell, had stood close enough to feel the heat of the flames.
She had turned and run back to the tower. That had been hours ago.
Where was Rayven?
It would be dawn soon.
Why didn't he come to bed?
Rising, she wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and left the tower. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she made her way down the narrow winding staircase to the first floor.
No lights shone.
Drawing the blanket more closely around her shoulders, she walked slowly toward the study.
She knew he was inside as soon as she put her hand on the latch.
"My lord?" She opened the door and peered into the darkness. "Rayven?" She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "I know you're in here."
"Go back to bed, Rhianna."
"It's lonely there without you."
"I cannot come to you tonight."
"Are you ill, my lord?"
He laughed softly, bitterly. "I am never ill, my sweet. Only sick in mind and spirit."
She took another step toward him. "Let me help you."
"There is nothing you can do, Rhianna."
"But..."
"If you care for me as much as you say, you will go back to bed." He drew in a ragged breath and released it slowly. "Go now, while I am willing, and able, to let you go."
"Rayven, please..."
"Leave me."
He spoke from between clenched teeth, his voice harsh, resounding with the power he held tightly leashed within him.
With a strangled cry, she turned and fled the room.
His side of the bed was empty in the morning. Alarmed, she drew on her robe and hurried down the stairs. "Bevins! Bevins!"
"Yes, milady?" He stepped out of the kitchen, looking much improved from the night before.
"Where is he? He didn't come to bed. The sun..." She shook her head, her eyes wide with a fear she dared not voice aloud.
"He is well, milady."
"Where is he? He hasn't..." She took a deep breath. "He hasn't left the castle?" He hasn't left me. The words, unspoken, seemed to hover in the air between them.
"No, milady."
She frowned. "But if he's here, where is he?"
Bevins hesitated a minute, as though deciding whether he should tell her or not.
"Tell me."
"He's in the cellar."
"The cellar!"
Bevins's gaze slid away from hers. "He takes his rest there, on occasion."
"In the cellar? Why ever for?"
"I'm afraid only my Lord Rayven can tell you that."
She turned toward the door, felt Bevins's hand upon her arm. "He will not like it if you go there."
"I'm his wife and the mistress of this castle," Rhianna said, surprised by the faintly imperious tone of her voice. "I will permit no secrets between my lord Rayven and myself."
Bevins removed his hand from her arm, then bowed. "As you wish, Lady Rhianna."
She met his gaze, an apology on the tip of her tongue. She had never treated Tom like a servant and was ashamed she had done so now.
Bevins shook his head. "You need not apologize, my lady." He pulled a long white candle from a drawer and lit it for her. "You'll have need of this." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a large brass key.
"And this."
Taking both candle and key, Rhianna turned away, her heart hammering in her breast as she made her way toward the long narrow flight of stairs that led down to the cellar.
A wave of cold air met her as she opened the door. For a moment, she stood at the top of the steps, looking down into the darkness beyond. Why had he chosen to rest down there? What would she find?
Summoning her courage, reminding herself that he was her husband, she descended the steps. Holding the candle higher, she saw several well-stocked wine racks, dozens of barrels and boxes, an enormous trunk covered with dust.
Lifting the hem of her nightgown with her free hand, she made her way deeper into the cellar. The air was dank and musty. Dusty cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling. The floor of hard-packed earth was cold beneath her feet. Images of hairy spiders and rats flitted across her mind.
When she reached the far end of the room, she stopped. And then she saw it, a narrow iron-strapped door to her left.
He was there.
With a hand that trembled, she slid the key into the lock. Dropping the key into the pocket of her robe, she took a deep breath and opened the door.
Praying for courage, she crossed the threshold.
The room was empty save for the coffin set against the far wall. A long black coffin, with the lid closed.
And carved into the top of the lid was the image of a raven in flight.
Bile rose in her throat as she stared at the casket.
Aren't vampyres supposed to sleep in coffins?she had once asked.
And he had replied I find them narrow and confining.
Terror settled in her stomach like a chunk of winter ice. This was what he was. He had told her so plainly enough. He had let her see his face with the mask of humanity gone. And she still had not understood completely, nor, she realized, fully believed, until now.
With a determination she had never known she possessed, she forced herself to cross the floor, to lift the satin-smooth heavy lid, to look inside.
He lay on a bed of white velvet. His cloak was wrapped around him, the black of his cloak and hair a sharp contrast to the casket's lining.
Her husband. A vampyre.
He stirred, as though aware of her presence, and his cloak settled more firmly around him, as if to restrain him.
A look of pain crossed his face, and then a single word whispered past his lips.
"Rhianna."
Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Tears of sorrow and pity, tears of compassion and soul-deep anguish. Tears that fell faster and faster, wetting the robe she clutched to her breast, dripping onto Rayven's cloak. Tears that refused to stop. A river of silent tears that she feared would drown them both.
She had the feeling that he knew she was there. She could feel him struggling through layers of darkness, fighting to be free of the deathlike sleep that imprisoned him, and she knew she could not face him now.
And then Bevins was there beside her, offering her his arm, leading her away.
He woke with the setting of the sun, his nostrils filled with her scent. He vaulted from the casket, hands clenched in anger. She had been here. He had not dreamed her presence while he lay helpless in the dark, but then, he never dreamed. She had been there.
Bevins! Attend me! Now!
He paced the floor while he waited for his servant, the certainty of what he must do cutting through him like a knife. He whirled around as the door to the cellar opened.
Bevins eyed him warily. "My lord?"
"I'm leaving here. Tonight."
"I shall pack your things."
"No. I'm taking nothing with me." His gaze met Bevins's. "Nothing."
'Very well. I shall be ready."
Rayven shook his head. "No. I want you to stay here, with... with her." He couldn't say her name aloud, not now.
"I don't understand."
"I am not as other men, and I find I cannot pretend any longer."
"My lord, perhaps if you did not keep so much to yourself. Perhaps if you went into the village of an evening and spent time with the people, let them see you. Perhaps if they knew you were the one providing funds for the shelter, it would help to dispel the rumors."
"No. It will be better for Rhianna, for all of us, if I leave." Rayven turned away, his arms folded over his chest. "I want you to stay with her as long as she needs you. When she's..." He took a deep breath.
"When she's found someone else, you will come to me."
Someone else, he thought bitterly. Someone like Montroy.
"Yes, my lord." Tom Bevins cleared his throat. "Will you be telling her this yourself?"
"No." Rayven shook his head, despising himself for his cowardice. "I'll need paper and pen."
"Yes, my lord."
Rhianna looked up from the book she was reading, smiling expectantly, but it wasn't Rayven in the doorway. It was Bevins.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed by the grim expression on Tom's face. "What's wrong?"
Bevins held out a sheet of paper. "This is for you, milady."
"A letter?" She stood up, the book in her lap tumbling to the floor, forgotten, as she took the missive from Bevins's hand. A letter at night could only be bad news.
She stared at it as if she had never seen a letter before, then slowly turned it over, her heart plummeting into her stomach when she saw Rayven's seal pressed into the wax.
With a bow, Bevins left the room.
Crossing the floor, Rhianna sat down on the edge of the bed, the bed she had shared with Rayven, and stared at the envelope, at the stark white paper, at the raven's head imprinted in the blood-red sealing wax.
Finally, with hands that trembled, she broke the seal.
Rhianna,
I cannot pretend any more. These past six months spent with you have been the happiest of my existence. You will never know the joy you have brought me, but I cannot stay with you longer. Your nearness soothes my soul even as it stirs the demon hunger within me, a hunger I fear I can no longer restrain.
The castle is yours. Do with it as you will. Bevins will stay with you as long as you need him. It is my wish that you forget me and find another. Montroy would make you a fine husband, one who can give you the kind of life you deserve.
Forgive me for telling you this in a letter, but, coward that I am, I could not tell you to your face for fear that you would convince me to stay. To do so might put your life, your very soul, in danger, and that is something I would never do.
Know that I shall cherish your memory and love you until my last breath.
Your obedient servant, Rayven
She stared at the words, words blurred by her tears, unable to believe that he had left her, that she would never see him again.
She didn't know how long she sat there, silent tears tracking her cheeks, staining the paper in her hands.
He was gone.
"Milady?"
It was an effort to lift her head. Bevins stood in the doorway, his expression somber, his eyes filled with sympathy.
"Lord Montroy is downstairs, milady."
"I can't see him now."
"I'm afraid he's insisting."
"Send him away."
"He will not go." Bevins took a deep breath. "He says my lord Rayven bid him come."
Rayven! Perhaps Montroy would know where he had gone. "Very well."
She stood up, the letter clutched in one hand. She followed Bevins down the stairs, not caring that her eyes were red and swollen from her tears. She was beyond feeling, past caring what anyone else thought.
Montroy was in the front parlor, his back to the hearth. He swore under his breath when Rhianna entered the room, then swiftly crossed the floor and gathered her into his arms.
She didn't resist, simply stood there, forlorn as a lost child.
"Rhianna." Taking her by the hand, he led her toward the big overstuffed chair near the hearth. Knowing it was against propriety, he nevertheless sat down and drew her into his lap, holding her as if she were a babe in need of solace.
She snuggled against him, her face buried in the hollow of his shoulder.
Muffled sobs shook her slender frame; her tears soaked his coat. Murmuring to her softly, he stroked her back, quietly cursing Rayven for his cruel abandonment.
He had seen Rayven at Cotyer's earlier that evening.
"I am leaving Millbrae," Rayven had said without preamble. "I want you to look after Rhianna."
It had taken the viscount a moment to find his voice. "Where are you going?"
"It doesn't matter."
"When are you coming back?"
"I don't know. Perhaps never."
"I don't understand."
A trace of wry amusement had flickered in Rayven's eyes. "I cannot explain it to you, Montroy, but I want your word that you will look after her."
Dallon had stared into Rayven's eyes, those compelling black eyes that had, over the years, often made him uneasy. There was no hint of danger lurking in those eyes now, no arrogance, only a pain so deep it could not be concealed. "You know I will."
Rayven had nodded. "Be good to her," he had said, and then, his cape billowing behind him, he had left the room.
Disappeared, Dallon would have thought, if such a thing was possible.
"He's left me."
Rhianna's voice brought Montroy back to the present. "I know."
"Why?" She looked up at him, the pain in her eyes reminding him of the anguish he had seen in Rayven's.
"I don't know," Montroy replied softly. Taking a linen handkerchief from his coat pocket, he wiped the tears from her eyes, her cheeks.
"I thought he loved me." She looked at the letter still clutched in her hand. "He said he loved me."
"He does," Montroy said. "I'm sure of it."
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Why are you here?"
"Rayven asked me to come. He didn't want you to be alone."
"He sent you to me? You saw him?" Hope flared in her eyes. "When? Where? Where is he now?"
"He's gone, Rhianna. He wouldn't tell me where or why, only that he was going."
It hurt to watch the hope die in her eyes, to see the hopelessness settle over her once more. It hurt to know that she loved another.
"Rhianna, what can I do?"
"Do?" She stared at him blankly.
She shuddered in his arms as a fresh wave of tears filled her eyes. Helpless, he watched her cry, watched the silent tears flood her eyes and cascade down her cheeks.
After a while, she collapsed against him, and he held her tight, his hand stroking her hair, her back, wondering if she would ever smile again.
Standing outside in the shadows, Rayven peered in the window, watching. A pain as sharp as a stake pierced his heart as he listened to her tears and knew he was the cause.
"I love you, my sweet Rhianna," he murmured.
And it was that love that made him turn away, that sent him running through the night, away from the only woman he had ever loved.
Days passed, but Rhianna was hardly aware of them. She spent her mornings wandering through the gardens, remembering the nights she had spent walking in the moonlight with Rayven. She ate at Bevins's insistence, though she had no appetite for food. She took long naps and retired early to her bed because it was only there, in her dreams, that her husband came to her.
Montroy came to visit her each day, his concern evident in the look in his eyes, in his voice, the gentle touch of his hand. He didn't intrude on her grief, didn't tell her not to cry, not to grieve. He bowed to her wishes when she wanted to be alone, held her when she asked for comfort, dried her tears when she wept. And hoped that, one day, she would accept his love, prayed that one day she would grow to love him as deeply as she loved the dark lord of Castle Rayven.
And sometimes when she cried, when the pain in her eyes made his heart ache, he knew he would gladly see her reunited with Rayven if it would make her smile again.
