Elizabeth’s eyes. Those unique, icy silver-and-blue eyes.
Gloria’s brows drew into a line. “You know well that she never had a babe before she … before she …” Her voice trailed away.
Aye. Before she … before she sacrificed herself to stop the Mindbreaker those centuries ago, but neither of them could give the thought voice.
Silence fell.
Finally, a soft chuckle floated through the night air, followed by the words, “Morse code.”
As one, Dorian and Gloria turned to see their creator, Jacques Lebeau, the Devil of France. Most called him beautiful. Indeed, he was. Tall, dark-haired, and arresting, the vampire possessed looks of stunning perfection, even with the scar running down the side of his face—a scar he refused to discuss with anyone.
“Jacques.” Dorian bowed his head in respect.
Moving to kiss the vampire’s hand, Gloria whispered, “The night of our turning, for which we must thank you, Jacques.”
The vampire’s eyes darkened with amusement. “Even these many years later, I stand in awe of that night. Never before or since have any vampires turned on a Wolf Blood Moon—you and Dorian have only your own strength of will to thank.”
Gloria bowed her head a moment before leaving in a rush of wind.
Dorian expelled a long, deep breath as Jacques’ initial words hovered on the edge of his memory. It took him a moment to fish them back. Turning to his creator and friend, he repeated, “Morse code? Pray tell, what is that?” Having spent the past four hundred or so years in a Venice plague grave, with a brick stuck in his mouth, he’d missed out on many human inventions.
The French vampire grinned and pointed to the darkness below their feet.
Curious, Dorian glanced down at a car winding its way through the park, its headlights two twin beams of light, flashing in and out from under the trees lining the paved road.
“Boredom,” Jacques explained, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “It’s a game I play. Humans came up with Morse code to transmit messages sometime back. Different combinations of dots and dashes represent different letters, my friend. Look at that car’s lights. See? Often I stand here and ask, ‘has the universe a message for me?’ It did, once before, and on this very night.”
Dorian exchanged a silent look before glancing below at the headlights flickering through the trees. They beamed a series of short bursts as the vehicle wound its way to the park exit.
“Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash,” Jacques began translating, his lips twisting in dry amusement. “E-T-W-F-E. What could ETWFE refer to? Hmm? What message is this?”
Dorian cocked a brow at him, the weight of his sadness already lifting, and he knew that to be the true intent of his creator’s playfulness. “Have you quit the reading of the tea leaves, my friend?” he asked, his carved lips curving into a smile. “’Twould be wise, for not once did I find your predictions come true.”
Except on the night of his turning, but neither one felt inclined to mention it.
Chuckling, Jacques approached to clap his hand hard on Dorian’s back. “Never stop searching for meaning in the mysteries of the universe, mon ami. We are vampires.”
“Aye,” Dorian murmured his agreement. They stood in companionable silence before he finally bowed his head and began, “I thank—”
“No,” Jacques cut him short. “I meant it, my friend. I may have turned both you and Gloria those many years ago, but ‘twas through your own strength and passion that you succeeded. Nay, let’s call it as it is. There are no wolves here that I can see.” After a theatrical glance around, he leaned over and hissed, “’Tis a Highlander Blood Moon, is it not?”
Dorian rolled his eyes.
“Ah, but you and Gloria are legendary,” Jacques continued in a serious tone. “Such strength. ‘Tis why the Mindbreaker fears you so. Nay, never will I forget that night.”
Dorian bowed his head.
So much had happened. The night’s fate had wrenched him away from his lady love, Elizabeth, a lady to die for—and one he actually had died for. There could never be any other. Not really. It had been that way from the moment they’d met, to the day they’d parted …
Chapter 2
A Lady to Die for
Fourteenth Century, Scotland
Dorian stretched, rolling his broad shoulders back with a yawn as he stood near the window in the winter morning’s sun. The weak rays played over his chestnut hair, lending it a reddish tint but doing little to provide actual heat. Blowing a warm breath over his fingers, he arched a brow and squinted jade-green eyes at the water-stained missive that had just been handed to him, its wax seal cracked and broken.
“The seal ‘twas broken when the tinker gave it to me, my lord,” the nervous messenger swore, hovering near the antechamber door as if prepared to flee.
Dorian sent him an easy grin to steady his nerves. “Ach, ‘tis nothing to fret over, lad,” he assured in his mellow Scottish burr. “You may leave.”
Relief washed over the lad’s face, and he opened the door.
Yawning again, Dorian unfolded the parchment.
Three words met his gaze. Three words written boldly across the page:
“Come home. Gloria.”
A shiver of foreboding rippled down his spine and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
With a clench of his lean jaw, he sprinted out the chamber door and searched the castle’s dark passageways. Spying the messenger’s disappearing back, he called out, “Ho there, lad. Wait!”
The lad froze.
“There’s no more?” Dorian asked, waving the cryptic missive. “Naught you can tell me? At least, tell me when ‘twas sent, aye?”
“All I know ‘twas in the keeping of the tinker for over two months, my lord, afore it came into my keeping three days ago,” the lad swore.
Two months, at least. Dorian drew a long, uneasy breath. Whatever emergency had prompted Gloria to pen the message had long passed now. He grimaced.
“My lord?” the lad queried in edgy tones.
He waved the youth away and returned to the antechamber.
Two months. Ach, he wanted nothing more than to stay and extend the magic of the past few weeks, to gather Elizabeth safely in his arms and hold her close to his heart forever. One day, he would. But not this day. Not now. He had to ride.
It was time to go home.
Softly, he turned the latch and entered the bedchamber.
Elizabeth sat on the bed, awake. Of course, she would be. The woman was an uncanny one, to be sure—and beyond stunning. He stood there a moment, drinking in the sight of her beauty. At first glance, she appeared willowy, slender, perhaps even bordering on frail with crystal ice-blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and long brown hair cascading over the creamy white skin of her naked shoulders. But the lass was anything but delicate. Far from it. Never had he met a more powerful woman. Strong. Determined. Wily. Aye, even downright pigheaded.
He grinned and crossing the fur rug soft under his bare feet, sat on the edge of the down-filled mattress.
At first, she refused to meet his gaze. “You’re leaving,” she stated, drawing the words out in one long sigh, her tone soft, cultured.
“Aye,” he answered readily, reaching a hand to smooth a brown lock of hair back from her cheek. “I want nothing more than to kiss every inch of you, lass, and in every way, but I canna leave my wee sister in danger unknown.”
Her silver-blue eyes softened. “’Tis what I love about you most, Dorian,” she whispered, pulling her shift over her naked shoulders. “Honor. Loyalty. Justice. A true champion, ‘tis what you are. I wouldn’t dream of hindering you, my love.” Rising on her knees, she slipped her arms around his neck and confessed with a faint, rueful smile, “But I will sorely miss you. ‘Tis for myself I am sad.”
Dorian let his gaze drift over her shapely figure before pulling her softness even closer. “Come with me,” he suggested playfully. “Hie yourself away to the highlands, aye?”
Pain leapt into her eyes. And sadness. “Your boyish smile never fails to charm,” she admitted with a reluctant smile of her own. He knew what she would say next. She’d said it many times over the past few weeks. And true to form, she met his gaze with a steady determination and parted her perfect lips to repeat the dreaded words, “You know I cannot leave. Even though I detest every fiber of the boorish beast, I have a duty and my duty is not yet done.”
Aye, the wee matter of her husband stood between them. Lord Brian Rowle. Obligation, perhaps … but duty?
After bending down to kiss her brow, he rose from the bed with a frown. “I want you happy, Elizabeth,” he said. “And that means out of that cruel man’s clutches. Haven’t you suffered long enough? Ach, they gave you to him as only a wee lassie of five summers. Surely, no priest would sanction such a union—”
“Nay, my love,” she interrupted. “It cannot be undone—for now.”
Slipping out of the bed, she reached past him for a shawl resting on a nearby chair and wrapped it around her full hips and slender waist. Her mouthwatering curves made him want to skim his hands over the softness of her flesh once again, but alas, he had no time for such diversions.
“My freedom must wait,” she continued resolutely. “I shall not leave him until I do what I’ve come to do.”
‘Twas nothing new. She’d said this all many times before. Aye, ‘twas where the pigheadedness came in. And invariably, she’d stubbornly refuse to tell him just what ‘she’d come to do’. Still. He had to try one last time.
“Whatever this secretive mission be … leave it be, lass,” he entreated, gathering her close to rub his cheek against the top of her head. “Or else I fear you’ll be in danger should I leave.”
He felt her slender shoulders sag a little as she ran her palms up his broad, muscular chest. “Lord Rowle cannot harm me, Dorian,” she promised. “Do not fear.”
But fear he did. Stepping away, he moved to the chair and retrieving his Ramsey plaid, draped the material over his powerful frame. After belting his sword around his lean hips and tugging on his leather boots, he expelled a long breath through his nose. Aye, he had no choice. He had to trust her judgement. But still, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
He heard the rustle of soft cloth behind him and turned to watch her pad across the chamber to open the shuttered window. The winter light flooded in, illuminating her beauty once again. His heart tugged. Coming up from behind, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. Even though she stood tall for a woman, he towered over her still. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. Burying his nose in her hair, he murmured, “I canna stop fearing for you, lass, even though I know right well you’ve a strong, steady hand.”
She leaned against him before turning in the circle of his arms. With a thoughtful expression, she ran her fingers over the folds of his plaid and adjusted his clan kilt pin to secure the material. Finally, she lifted her stunning eyes to meet his and the corners crinkled with amusement. “I will promise you this, my love, that when my duty is over, I will, as you say, ‘hie myself off to the highlands with ye’.” The last words were said in her best imitation of his Scottish accent.
Dorian felt his lips broaden in a grin. “Then I pray this duty finishes soon,” he replied, letting his eyes drop lustfully over her slimness pressed so warmly against him. His body stirred. “My mind strays in your company, lass,” he chuckled, allowing a teasing note to enter his voice. “Why do you tempt me to stay when you know I must leave and with haste?” He let his warm, green eyes scold her.
With a smile, she pulled out of his embrace but in the next moment, a somber turn of the lip replaced the smile. “’Tis your wellbeing I fear for,” she confessed. “Promise me you’ll stay safe, will you?”
He cradled her face between his palms. “Ach, ‘tis not I who is in danger, you bonny, daft lass. Not even from your husband should he discover where I’ve been this past fortnight.”
From the seriousness of her expression, he could see she took little comfort from his words.
He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to go. “I—” he began.
“Wait,” she interrupted softly. Moving swiftly to an iron-banded chest nearby, she knelt before it and lifted the lid. After a moment, she withdrew a small, leather scabbard and returning to his side, pressed it flat against his chest. “Take this, Dorian. Promise me, you’ll never let it leave your side. The blade within is made of solid silver.”
He slid his fingers sensually over hers before accepting the blade. It was small. A dagger fit only for a woman. The finely crafted leather scabbard and the sapphire-adorned and engraved hilt announced it a costly trinket, to be sure. And silver? Such an unsuitable metal for a weapon.
“Swear you’ll keep it with you, always,” she insisted, hardening her tone.
Aye, he’d keep it close to his heart, but only to remember her by. Such a knife would be of small use against men with broadswords and cudgels. “I will,” he promised with a bow. “I am your humble servant, my lady.”
“You are indeed, and I have many servants on the road,” she said earnestly. “Should you need help, Dorian, I pray they may find you.”
He raised a curious brow. “Dinna fret, lass, I’ll be safe.”
Apparently, she didn’t think so. “Humor me, I beg you,” she insisted. Leaning closer, she whispered, “You’ll know them by these words: Honor. Justice. Forever. Never fading throughout the long march of time.”
Dorian drew his brows together, slightly puzzled. Why the mysterious drama? Seeking to soothe her worry, he simply nodded and chucked her under the chin. “Aye, lass,” he said with his most comforting smile.
Elizabeth’s hand clamped over his forearm. “I am being quite serious,” she stressed. “You cannot forget these words, Dorian. Swear it.”
“Aye, I swear it,” he agreed quickly, bending down to plant a soft kiss on her forehead.
Something glistened in the corner of her eye. A tear?
“Then go now,” she whispered hoarsely. “May you live long and stay well.” Her voice caught, and abruptly she turned away. “I will not watch you leave.”
“Ach, you wee fool,” he objected, gently turning her around. “I’ll have my farewell kiss first.”
He saw the tears she wished to hide and wiped them away with his thumb before dropping the gentlest of kisses upon her lips. It was a poignantly powerful kiss, ripe with emotion, a kiss he wished could last an eternity but all too soon, with the last soft touch, they parted.
“I’ll soon return,” he promised.
Nodding, she bowed her head.
He left then, wishing to spare her feelings and with a quick step, passed through the doorway, closing the oak door softly behind him. For a moment, he stayed there, resting his forehead against it, but not for long.
‘Twas time to ride.
“Come home,” his sister had written.
Stepping out into the midwinter sun, he headed towards the stables, murmuring under his breath, “I’m coming, Gloria. Hold tight. You’re a Ramsey, lass.”
Chapter 3
The Night Viper’s Scourge
By late afternoon, Dorian still hadn’t met a soul on the road—unless one counted the occasional white bunting or thrush twittering in the bare, snow-dusted trees. He rode hard, pushing his gray gelding as hard as he could, but still, the white-tipped peak of Ben Nevis seemed no closer.
“Hold fast, Gloria,” he muttered, reining his horse with a muscled arm.
For the past hour, the wind had risen, bringing with it dark, roiling clouds from the north.
“Ach,” he spat to his gelding, frustrated at the impending delay. “We’ll have to find shelter. And from the looks of it, right soon.”
The horse flicked its ears and huffed a breath.
Dorian sighed and turning the animal’s head, pressed urgently onwards into the bitter wind. He had no choice. He’d have to stop soon. But with luck, the storm would pass in th
e night and by late next evening, he’d be home with Gloria in their village nestled in Ben Nevis’ shadow. Concern over her cryptic missive occupied his thoughts as he plodded through the snow. But with only the words ‘Come home’, there was precious little to go on, so he did the only thing he could: ride faster.
As an early night fell, snow flurried down from above to magnify the silence surrounding him. Still, he plodded on, hunching deeper into his plaid until finally, the rising winds announced it time to stop.
“Only half a league more, lad,” he encouraged his horse. “We’ll halt for the night at the Fighting Cock, aye?”
The horse didn’t respond. Not even with a flick of an ear.
“Ach, what poor company you’ve been this day,” Dorian grumbled under his breath.
Something flashed in the corner of his eye.
Startled, he whirled in his saddle, his hand dropping to his sword, but he caught only a dark blur and a glimpse of a snowy, white wing.
Ach, an owl.
Brushing it aside, he drew his plaid over his face and spurred his horse on, and in only minutes, the welcoming twinkle of lights flickered in the darkness ahead.
At last, warmth and food beckoned.
Sensing the same, the horse quickened its pace, and soon Dorian was pulling rein before the Fighting Cock, a long white-washed building with a thatched roof and carmine-colored door.
Dorian dismounted in a creak of leather and headed for the stables first. After tending his horse, he made for the inn and ducked inside the inn, encountering a huge whiff of peat fire smoke that burned his eyes a bit, but he couldn’t complain. It felt gloriously warm. Squinting, he made his way to where the innkeeper stood behind a sturdy oak counter and paid for a bed, ale, and whatever the kitchen served as the nightly meal. As a tankard of brew slid his way, he grabbed the pewter handle and searching the dim interior, headed towards the only vacant table in the corner.
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