“You mentioned the catacombs,” Isabel explained. “Most of the people who live at Charmot think they are bad luck, a place of evil.” She refilled his trencher. “The caves were discovered or made by the druids, the ancient folk of this island and the woods around it. The ignorant say they were witches and warlocks who fed on human flesh, and that the scrolls in their catacombs are full of evil magic.” She thought the dwarf would laugh at this, but he didn’t even smile. “They even say my father cursed himself when he built this castle here,” she finished, smiling herself.
“And thus the Black Knight keeps his castle prisoner,” he said with a pointed glance over his cup. “Is that what you believe, my lady?”
“No, master wizard, I do not.” Tom came into the hall at a trot, giving her an excuse to let the matter drop. “What is it, Tom?”
“Forgive me, my lady,” the boy said, glancing at Orlando. “I must speak with you.”
“All right.” Nodding once more to her guest, she followed Tom back out into the courtyard. “What is it?”
“I rode all the way to the river by the king’s road and back to Charmot through the forest,” Tom said. “But I never saw a sign of that Frenchman and his men. I even went to the tavern where they were seen. The man there said they left at nightfall, headed for the Chapel of Saint Joseph to take lodging for the night.”
“Did you go to the chapel?”
“No, my lady. I was afraid they might still be there, so I turned back before I got close to the village.”
And if they are still there? she wanted to ask. Do you not think I need to know it? But Tom was barely sixteen and a stable boy at that; she could hardly expect him to have the courage of a knight errant. She thought again of Simon, sleeping in her cellar even now, and silently cursed his stupid curse.
“Very well,” she said aloud. “Keep Master Orlando upstairs for a few minutes—your mother can help you. I need to speak to my cousin alone.” The boy looked doubtful. “And if he won’t help me, I’ll go to the chapel myself.”
4
Simon dreamed of Ireland. He was standing on the beach below his master’s castle, the morning sun warm on his back. A nightmare, he thought, tears of relief on his face, real salt tears, not blood. It had all been a dream. A great black horse was galloping through the surf, glad to be free of the ship’s hold at last—his horse. He had come home.
He turned back toward the castle, smiling, but the cliffs were gone, and suddenly, it was night. A great, black plain spread out before him, its
tall, dead grasses whispering in a freezing wind. Behind him was his village, where everyone was asleep; his mother was sleeping and her kinsmen. All of those who shuddered as he passed them in the daylight and hid from him in the night. Far across the plain, he saw the fires, the lights of the marauding gods. My father, he thought, the killing rage rising inside him. There is my father.
Isabel slipped into her cousin’s room, embarrassed but determined. She had tried knocking on the door, but he had not answered, and she had to speak to him. “Simon?” she called out softly, blinking in the near-darkness. He had put out the torches, leaving only a single candle burning near the door. She picked it up and closed the door behind her before she approached the bed. “Simon?” She hoped her parents in heaven were otherwise distracted at the moment and not watching her invade the bedchamber of a man she’d barely met. “Are you asleep?”
He was. He had thrown the pillows off the bed and most of the covers as well and was lying nearly sideways across it on his back, arms and legs sprawled in every direction and his head hanging upside down over the edge. She smiled, amused in spite of her worries and the oddness of her present situation. She’d thought she was the most unquiet sleeper in England, but apparently with Simon back from the Holy Land, she was not.
“Simon,” she said more loudly, but still he didn’t stir. His long, dark hair had fallen back from his brow, and his face glowed in the candlelight, the face of an angel. She moved closer, fascinated. His lashes were every bit as long as her own and as dark as his hair, contrasting sharply with the moonlight-colored skin of his finely chiseled cheekbones, his high-arched eyebrows black against his delicate brow. His nose was delicate as well, even at this ridiculous angle, and his mouth was a perfect bow, soft and sweet in repose. He had shaved, apparently; the dark shadow of his beard was gone. In truth, he was almost too pretty; if she had only seen his face, she might have mistaken him for a maid. But his body was definitely masculine; his arms and shoulders and chest were bare above the twisted blankets, thickly curved with lethal-looking muscle. He had said he was a knight errant before his curse, that he had killed more men than he could count, and seeing him now, she believed him. Angel he might be, but only the sword and the lance could have sculpted him to such a shape. But even so, the skin on his body was as milky white and smooth as his face, its creamy perfection unbroken by so much as a freckle.
“What manner of man are you, cousin?” she whispered, feeling a queer little shiver in her stomach as she bent closer to him. He stirred, still restless in his dream, his brow suddenly drawn in a frown, and she found herself holding her breath, entranced by his beauty, close enough to touch.
But that was ridiculous; she didn’t want to touch him; she wanted his counsel. He was a man, a noble knight, her kinsman, and her castle was in danger. He should want to help her, and he should know what to do. “Simon,” she repeated, giving his shoulder a shake.
Simon came out of his dream in a fury, blind with rage and drunk on the sudden smell of blood so close he could reach out and seize it. “Yes,” he snarled, grabbing the woman up by her arms and shoving her back against the wall, the light she held falling to the floor.
“Wait!” Isabel cried out, horrified by his reaction and stunned by how quickly he could move straight out of a sound sleep. “Simon, it’s me!” She had dropped the candle when he grabbed her, but not before she had seen he was naked, another frightening shock. “It’s Isabel.” He was holding her fast against the wall, standing so close to her she could feel her body brush against him with every breath she took. “Don’t you remember?”
“Isabel…” Her breath was sweet; her mouth was so close he could taste it, and her heartbeat was exquisite. He had never heard such a strong little heart. But she was speaking to him, saying something that ought to have meaning… Isabel; she said her name was Isabel. He fought to recover some part of his waking, still-human reason, to remember who she was and why he shouldn’t hurt her, but the demon inside him was hungry; it cared only for her blood. He had been sleeping, safe in his lair, and she had come upon him willingly, had touched him uninvited. Surely she must be prey.
“Yes, Isabel. Sir Gabriel’s daughter—your cousin, you idiot.” She had never been so close to any man before, certainly not a naked one, and suddenly it occurred to her that she didn’t really know him from Adam, and they were two full stories under the castle. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her. “I need to talk to you.” He leaned even closer, his cheek brushing against hers, and she could hear him breathing, sniffing her hair like a dog. “I…” She felt what must have been his mouth brush her ear, and mysteriously, with out warning, her knees went weak. “I need your help,” she finished, struggling to keep her voice.
The smell of her skin was unbearable, like blossoms of honeysuckle crushed in his fist, and her hair smelled like spring rain. He let one hand slide up her arm and over her shoulder to her throat, her skin like silk and warm with life, the pad of his thumb gently pressing her pulse. But slowly his mind was returning, as much as it could in the full sun of the day. Slowly he remembered who she was and why he was with her. This cavern was her home, a room under her castle. She was Isabel, the maiden with the key to his salvation. But what was she doing down here? Surely he must have warned her somehow; surely she must know to stay away. “No,” he answered, his voice like the growl of the wolf. “I cannot help you.”
“Are you sleeping?” she said softly, barely louder than a whisper, the sound of his voice dissolving the last of her bravado. “Are you still asleep?” He sounded like a man in a trance, under a deadly spell, and neither the distant, saintly man she had met the night before nor the easy, good-natured knight who had talked with her that morning would have sounded that way or threatened her like this or made her feel so strange, frightened and aching at once. The sensible woman she had always known herself to be wanted him to come back to his senses and let go of her at once. But there was another, new part of her she had never known existed, a stranger who both feared the man who held her and desired him, who trembled to imagine what he might do next and yet still ached to feel it, whatever it was.
“Yes,” he answered, touching her mouth, one hand still braced against her shoulder to keep her pinned to the wall, one knee pressed between her own. “I am dreaming.” His vampire senses could see her face even in the dark, see her blush as a rose-colored glow. “You should not have come here.” He traced the curve of her cheek down to her jaw, the flow of her blood down the fragile flesh of her throat. Her body brushed against him as she gasped, her soft breasts pressed against his chest, deliciously warm through her gown, and every muscle in his body ached to possess her, to crush her in his arms. “You must go away.”
“But…” No one had ever touched her this way before, as if she were some precious thing to be both possessed and adored. Perhaps she was dreaming as well. “But I can’t,” she answered, finding her sensible voice. “You must let me go.”
His mouth was now so close to hers, he could feel the warmth of her lips on his own, but she couldn’t see him in the dark. She could not know what held her. If she had seen him, seen the demon fire in his eyes, seen the fangs that he could feel against his tongue, she would be screaming, burning with terror alone. The desire his demon senses insisted she felt was no more than an illusion. “Yes.” He cradled her beautiful face in his hands, closing his eyes for a moment as he leaned his forehead to hers. Then he let her go.
As soon as he stepped back, the spell he had somehow cast over her, stealing her wits, was broken. Now all she felt was embarrassed. “Sleep well, cousin,” she mumbled, pushing past him to stumble to the door, tripping over that damned fallen candle as she went.
She plunged out into the tiny corridor and slammed the door behind her, leaning back against it as if to trap some terrible monster inside. Orlando was coming down the stairs, and when he saw her, he looked every bit as horrified as she had felt a moment or so ago.