Rosalind swept him a deep curtsy. "Alas, my lord, I was distracted and we failed to shake hands on the bet." She met his gaze. "And, as an honorable man, you know I won."

His smile died. "Rosalind . . ."

"It is barely midday, sir." Rosalind brought her hand to her forehead. "I am going to lie on my bed because I am still shaking from my close encounter with death."

"I could keep you company, hold you in my arms, whisper sweet nothings in your ear."

Her whole body softened and yearned toward him. "But you wouldn't stop there, would you?"

He regarded her seriously, his blue eyes intent, his far-too-kissable mouth a scant inch away from hers. "Probably not." He sighed and bent to kiss her cheek. "Go to bed, my love. I'll talk to Rhys and see you later."

"Thank you," she whispered.

His smile was soft and for her alone. "You will make it up to me, I trust."

She held his gaze and bit down on her lip. "I might."

He groaned and moved away from her. "You are a temptress sent by the devil. Now go to bed before I put you over my shoulder and carry you up there myself and be damned to what everyone thinks."

She blew him a kiss and ran up the two flights of stairs to her solitary dormer room. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it. The shock she'd held at bay since the arrow had almost killed her shuddered through her and she barely made it onto the bed.

Suddenly, she wished Christopher was there, his arms wrapped around her, his mind supporting and completing hers. But as they both knew, there were eyes everywhere at court. If he'd followed her up the stairs, someone would've seen him and the gossip about them would start afresh. She couldn't afford to give Anne Boleyn the opportunity to denounce her to the king for having loose morals.

Rosalind closed her eyes. The king. She needed to warn him again about the dangers surrounding him. She doubted he would believe her if she named her suspects, and it was vital for her to remain at court. So she would continue to fight on alone. Desperation flooded through her. When would this end? Not for the first time in her life, she doubted her ability to stop the Vampire threat.

She took several deep, steadying breaths. She wasn't quite alone. She had Christopher and Rhys at her side. Her grandfather had trusted her to save the Tudors once and she had succeeded then. She could not let him down.

Christopher waited until Rosalind was out of sight before returning to the Clock court, his smile dying, his thoughts focused on his uncle Edward. Edward had been frail ever since a fever had left him bedridden for months the previous winter. Was it really worth fighting him on every issue when he would soon be gone?

Christopher hesitated by the archway. Mayhap that brush with his own mortality explained Edward's sudden reawakening of interest in the Vampire cause. Did he hope for something more than an increase in power? Christopher shook his head. If so, Edward had miscalculated, because it didn't appear that the Vampires needed the help of the Ellis family at all. Yet his uncle seemed so confident . . .

It made no sense at all. Christopher glanced back at the ladies' quarters and imagined Rosalind in bed. He wanted to be with her so badly his prick was permanently hard. With all the discipline he could muster, he focused on something to help him solve at least one of his problems. In the distance, he spotted Sir Marcus Flavian practicing swordplay with one of his men. He reckoned that was as good a place to start as any.

Christopher threaded his way through groups of men practicing fighting skills. In the distance he could hear the sound of horses being galloped along the jousting course and the smack and splinter of lances meeting. The smell of wet, rusting chain mail blended with the searing heat from the armorer's braziers as the man repaired a broken sword.

When Christopher approached, Sir Marcus glanced up at him before returning his keen gaze to his opponent, but his words were for Christopher.

"What do you want, my lord?"

"Just to speak with you, but there is no hurry. Pray continue." Christopher was quite content to stand and admire Marcus's skill with the sword. If they ever came to blows, which seemed likely, it was good to have some knowledge of an opponent's capability. And, even though they had once trained together, Christopher was eager to see what new tricks Marcus had learned.

Marcus was of wider build than Christopher but slightly shorter. What he lacked in reach, he made up for in sheer brute strength. Christopher knew that Marcus's forebears were a mixture of Romano British and Viking, which accounted both for his size and his warlike nature.

It took Marcus only another ten punishing blows to have his opponent on the ground and offering up his surrender. Christopher nodded as Marcus took off his helm to reveal his damp blond hair and strode toward him.

"You still fight well, I see."

Marcus sheathed his sword, the metal grating against his scabbard. He waved the other men away and set his helm on the bench with a thump. "What do you want, Ellis?"

"To ask you something."

"About your impending death? I've already offered to be your executioner when the time comes."

"Marcus-"

Marcus swung around and shoved his finger in Christopher's face. "I cannot believe that you, an Ellis, have betrayed your own kind."

A sense of weariness enveloped Christopher. He was so tired of being judged and condemned. "You know me, Marcus. Do you think I willingly betrayed anyone?"

"It seems you are not the man I once knew." His ex-friend's gray eyes were as cold and inflexible as the armor he wore.

"I did what I had to do."

"That's no excuse."

Christopher grabbed Marcus's arm. "I said I did what I had to do. I didn't say I liked doing it. I was betrayed by those who should've had my best interests at heart, and now I am trapped within a web of lies and blood oaths and promises that would defeat any man."

"This is scarcely of interest to me."

"It should be. One day you might find yourself in the same position." Marcus cursed and tried to shrug out of Christopher's hold, but Christopher held on. "For God's sake, listen to me. I cannot allow my uncle to win."

Marcus frowned. "Your uncle is the head of the cult. His word is law."

"And that is the problem." Christopher let go of Marcus and stepped back. "Ask my uncle what his plans are for those who worship Mithras, and then come and talk to me. I can only hope it won't be too late."

"To save your puny neck?" Marcus sneered.

Christopher stared at him. "No, to save this country from being ruled by Vampires."

"What?"

"You heard me. The Cult of Mithras has been enlisted to protect the Vampires not so they can live beside us in peace but so they can conquer the entire human race. Ask my uncle, and then decide whether I am simply a coward trying to save his own skin."

Marcus's gaze lingered on Christopher's face. "I'll do that, and then I will come and find you and beat you to a pulp."

"You can certainly try." Christopher walked away toward the stables to find Rhys. He wondered how his uncle would deal with Marcus's questions and what the result would be. He knew Marcus to be a rigidly proper man who would never countenance Vampire domination. Christopher exhaled. Perhaps he wouldn't have to see his uncle face-to-face after all. Marcus might do his work for him.

When Rosalind came back into the royal apartments that evening, she winced at the noise. A band of musicians occupied one corner of the room and Anne and the king, accompanied by their courtiers, were engaged in a rowdy country dance around the chamber. The king's cheeks were red with exertion and he was laughing uproariously. Anne was more contained, but her dark eyes glinted brightly and her hand gripped the king's large one so tightly her knuckles gleamed white.

Rosalind edged backward until she reached the far corner of the room and found a seat. She pressed her hand to her aching forehead and wished she'd stayed in bed after all. Opposite her, surrounded by many beautiful women, sat a laughing George Boleyn. Rosalind remembered the days she'd spent with Queen Katherine; the pious simplicity of her court and the ready warmth the queen had always shown Rosalind.

"Lady Rosalind, come and dance."

She jerked her head up and saw Christopher standing in front of her, his hand imperiously stretched out toward her. "I'd rather not, my lord."

He frowned and raised his voice. "Why not, my lady? Are you determined to spoil my pleasure?"

Behind Christopher, somebody laughed and Rosalind realized they had already excited some interest. "I am not disposed to dance, my lord. I have a headache."

"Nonsense!"

Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand and yanked her to her feet. She pulled back against him, and he glared at her. "Are you determined to resist me, my lady?"

"Are you mad?" she hissed.

He leaned in close and whispered, "No, we're fighting, remember?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Rosalind pulled her hand free and said loudly, "I do not appreciate being made into a spectacle, my lord. Please excuse me."

She flounced away from him in the direction of George Boleyn, and stopped right in front of the Vampire to make sure she had his attention. Christopher grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him.

"I do not appreciate being left standing by myself like a fool!"

"Then go and find some other poor woman to pester."

Christopher looked sulky. "But you are my betrothed."

Rosalind moved close to him and spoke so that only he and George Boleyn could hear her clearly. "And I'm tired of pretending to be happy about that."

"You think I feel any differently? Your family is my enemy."

"Then why don't you petition the king for your release? He's standing right over there." Rosalind curtsied and rushed out of the room. Surely that should be enough to convince the Boleyns that she and Christopher were not happy with their lot? And it freed her from another excruciating evening with Anne and the other Vampires. Rosalind gathered up her skirts and gave a little skip. After seeing Rhys, she could return to her bed with a clear conscience and leave Christopher to loudly proclaim his grievances to a no doubt very sympathetic George Boleyn.

Christopher scowled after Rosalind and then glanced down at George Boleyn. "I suppose you heard all that."

George smiled. "I told you your betrothal to that woman would be bad for you."

"I've tried to behave well with her, but . . ." Christopher sat down heavily next to George. "She is quite difficult."

"Difficult? I'd suggest impossible." George nudged Christopher in the ribs. "My offer still stands. Let her go out and fight without you, and she'll be dead within a week."

"She is stronger than you think."

"So I've heard, but despite her overinflated reputation, she is but a woman." George yawned and got to his feet as the music came to a crashing finale. "I suppose I'd better ask one of these oh, so willing ladies to dance. Why don't you do the same?" He beckoned to his sister, who had just finished dancing with the king. "In fact, why don't you dance with Anne? The king won't complain because he holds you in high regard, and I'm sure she'll be more than willing to commiserate with you over your betrothed's bad temper."

Christopher remained seated. It would not do to appear too eager to go along with George's plans. "Why this sudden change of heart, George? A few hours ago you were threatening to kill me."

"I talked to Anne. She believes you are still bound to our cause and working to protect us. She believes your relationship with the Llewellyn bitch gives you the perfect disguise."

Christopher forced a smile. "Anne is a wise woman."

"Then you will no doubt seek her counsel about your love life."

"Do you need counseling, Kit?" Christopher rose as Anne swept toward him, her eyebrows raised as she caught the end of George's comment. The heavy necklace of pearls and rubies that hung around her long, elegant neck was one Christopher remembered Queen Katherine wearing. "Where is the lovely Lady Rosalind?"

George chuckled. "Crying into her pillow, I should imagine. It seems she doesn't take well to being ordered about."

"What woman does?" Anne took Christopher's hand. "Have you quarreled?"

"We always quarrel." Christopher didn't even have to pretend to be irritated. It was true. "Lady Rosalind has a mind of her own."

"Another excellent quality in a woman, but I can understand that it might exasperate you." Anne drew him into the dance and took his other hand. "A man wishes to be superior in his own household."

"Pretty words, but do you not wish to rule the king?"

She lowered her eyes demurely. "Of course not. He is my sovereign, and he has my complete allegiance."

"And if he made you his queen?"

She caught his gaze and he found he couldn't look away. "He will make me his queen, and then we will rule this country together."

Her quiet certainty impressed him, and her eyes were so beguiling that he felt as if he were falling into a deep, dark pool. Her smile widened and she squeezed his hands. "We are alike in so many ways, Kit. Both forced to survive alone, both prepared to take risks to get what we truly desire."

"Are we?" His skeptical words sounded hollow to his own ears, his desire to believe in her strengthening with every quickening breath. His heart was beating fast in his chest. He wanted to pick her up and protect her from any man who ever threatened her.

"We know each other so well, my old friend. Why should we be at odds?"

He licked his lips as Anne continued to study him, and remembered how it felt to kiss her, to take her in his arms and hold her tight. "We . . . should not be enemies."

Her smile was both tender and inviting. "You see how easy it is for us to agree? We should be working together to defeat our enemies. With you by my side, I'm certain I could accomplish all my desires, and yours."

He shivered as her fingers trailed over his jaw.

"Kit, are you well?" Her teasing voice brought him back to the present, and the fact that he was staring at her like a callow youth, as if she held the key to all knowledge. He blinked hard and tore his gaze away from hers. He had to keep a clear head. Sympathizing with the Boleyns again was not part of his plan. He pictured Rosalind in his mind and immediately felt better.

Anne released his hand and curtsied. "I must go and attend to the king. He doesn't like to see me talking to any man but him."

Christopher nodded and walked away to the farthest corner of the room. He felt as if he were waking from a dream. Had Anne affected him in some way? He couldn't quite remember what he'd said to her, or what she had replied. All he knew was that for one moment he had wanted desperately to believe in her. Christopher shoved a hand through his hair and escaped into the wide hallways of the palace. He would do well to remember his own advice. Anyone connected to the Vampire Council was a threat and was to be avoided at all costs.

Chapter 11.

"Did I tell you that according to your grandfather, there is no true record of Lady Anne's birth?" Rhys asked as he slid his dagger into its sheath and buckled his belt around his waist. "It seems a false document was produced to satisfy the gossip, but the dates don't agree. Most people think it's because Lady Anne doesn't wish the king to know her true age, but we know better."

"Indeed, we do." Rosalind checked that her sword scabbard was securely fastened to her belt and bent to slide another dagger into the back of her soft leather boots. She watched Rhys pull on his thick leather jerkin and settle it across his muscled shoulders. "Have you noticed any pattern to the Boleyns' nighttime activities yet?"

"Not really." As he stretched, Rhys tugged her braided hair and she scowled at him. He stared over her shoulder into the stable yard. "Is Lord Christopher coming with us tonight?"

"I know not. Gossip says he spends his evenings cavorting with the Lady Anne and the days toad-eating her brother."

Rhys considered her, his hazel eyes amused. "You know why he is doing that."

"He says it is to gain more information for us, but I'm beginning to doubt him. He's completely ignored me for the last two weeks and he goes off by himself when we patrol at night." Rosalind bit down on her lip. "He seems enamored of Lady Anne."