“Darling, this man is not coming,” Simon tried to soothe her, silently begging God to let this be the truth.
“He is, Simon!” She was crying now, blind with her tears. “He’ll take my father’s castle and destroy it, destroy the catacombs and enslave our people, and everything my father ever did will be for nothing. I can’t let that happen; I can’t.” She caught hold of his tunic in both fists, the tunic that had once belonged to her father. “You are a knight. Cursed or not, you could fight him.”
“Isabel—”
“You could! You have to.” Tears were streaming down her face, but she was demanding, not pleading. “You said yourself, my father came to you, he sent you here. Don’t you see? He sent you here to save us as much as yourself—that is your quest.” She framed his angel’s face in both her hands, refusing to let him turn away. “Swear to me that you will fight Michel, or I swear I will turn you out and let you be damned forever.” His eyes were bright with sorrow or with pity; either way, she couldn’t bear to see it. She let go of his tunic and tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let her, pulling her close instead. “I will, Simon,” she finished, hiding her face in his chest.
“I know you will.” He stroked her hair, murmuring meaningless comfort as her fierce little heart beat desperately against his empty breast. “Hush now… it’s all right.” No wonder she was so frightened; inside her mind, Michel had become the monstrous sum of every evil she could possibly imagine. And now, thanks to Simon, he was. “I will fight him.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, holding her more tightly for a moment before he let her go. “If Michel comes to challenge the Black Knight of Charmot, I will make him sorry.”
She looked up at him, embarrassed and elated both at once. “Do you promise?”
“I swear.” He smiled as he wiped a final tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “What choice do I have?”
“None,” she admitted, barely smiling back.
“But you must promise me something as well.” He made himself stop touching her—already he could smell her blood, imagine its sweetness; her heartbeat was driving him mad. “Until Michel does come and
you need me, you must leave me to my quest.” She looked up at him, surprised. “I know you think my vows are foolish, but they are real,” he said, still fighting for control. He had no choice but to protect her; it was his fault she was in danger. But he could not endanger her him self, not if he truly hoped to ever win salvation. “You must not tempt me to break them.”
What was he saying? she thought. Did he truly mean her presence was temptation to him, that he wanted to be with her? “So I should stop inviting you to breakfast?” she said lightly.
“Yes, that,” he said with a smile. “You should stay away from me altogether. Orlando can look after me as little as I need it.” He barely touched her cheek again, unable to resist. “Will you promise me?”
“Yes,” she answered softly, barely able to speak. “If that is what you wish.” No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now. She felt dizzy just meeting his eyes.
“I do not wish it, Isabel.” No face had ever seemed so beautiful to him, no life so precious. She was an innocent; she trusted him. She demanded he be her protector. “But it must be so.” Even as he said the words, he was bending closer, bringing his lips to hers. Her eyes were open as he kissed her, her mouth soft and warm under his.
Falling, Isabel thought as she realized what he meant to do. I’m falling. His mouth was cool, a pleasant shiver of pressure against her own, and her eyes fell shut as of their own accord, as if she were tasting something so delicious she couldn’t bear to see. And so she was. She felt his arms encircle her, her own arms rising around him, and all the time his mouth was pressed to hers, a sensation like nothing she had ever felt before. She lifted her chin, rising into the kiss, and she felt him sigh more than heard it, felt him press her closer.
Stop it! his reason was roaring inside his head; let her go! But he could not, not yet. He brushed her lips with his again, barely a touch, and she pulled him closer, her hands in his hair, kissing him harder with the tender blossom of her mouth still closed. He could open it, he knew, and slip his tongue inside, taste her sweetness…
“No.” He turned his face away from hers, breaking the kiss.
For a moment, her mind refused to comprehend what he had said; her arms still tried to hold him. Then he took her gently by the wrists. “Isabel, no.”
“No,” she repeated, withdrawing. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” He bent and pressed a kiss to each of her palms, one after the other, his lashes long and dark against his alabaster skin. “But now you understand.”
“I think…” He looked up at her, and for a moment she saw fire in his eyes, the reflection of the torch’s flame, no doubt. “No, Simon,” she answered. “I don’t.”
“Then you must trust me.” He made himself let go of her and stand up, out of her reach. “You must stay away.” She was such an innocent; even now she was gazing up at him in perfect trust, her brow barely drawn in a frown. “Promise me, Isabel,” he said, his voice gone rough with longing as he turned away.
“I promise.” He had promised to protect her father’s castle in spite of his vows. How could she refuse him? Why should she even want to? But she did…
“My lady!” Tom came out of the castle. “Brautus says you must come inside,” he said, looking back and forth between them. “Before you catch your death.”
Simon smiled. “He is right.” He offered Isabel his hand and drew her to her feet. “So we have an accord?”
She let her hand stay soft in his, resisting the mad impulse to hold on. “We do, my lord.”
He nodded as he let her go. “Good night.”
6
Simon set a guard on the gates before he went to the cellars. If he was right and Michel was a vampire, and Isabel was right and he did mean to attack Charmot, he wanted as much warning as he could get. By the time he made it to Sir Gabriel’s study, Orlando had opened every casket and scattered scrolls from one corner of the tiny room to the other.
“Nothing,” he said, tossing another aside as the vampire came in and collapsed into a chair. “There’s nothing here—or nothing to the purpose.” He picked up a random scroll and read, “ ‘As Ethelred the Wise had recovered the wives of his nephew, he was gifted with forty oxen made as in honor of the Goddess.’ I ask you; who could care?”