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 owl 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 s
aid, 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 or
dinary 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.
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