He rose from the bed without another word, donned his clothes and stared at her for a long moment. He opened his mouth as though to speak but, thinking better of it, turned and left the room.

He did not look back.

She clutched her arms around her body and bent forward, rocking in her pain, pain at losing Adrian. There were no tears, there was no release from the agony in her heart, in her soul.

Witches cannot cry. Her body trembled with emotion as she rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

"Why does she persist in telling him nay?" the man asked, a frown marring his handsome features. "And why does she tell him she does not love him?"

"She made a promise to wed William," the woman explained gently as she laid her slim hand on his arm, trying to calm him. "She is an honorable woman, dearest."

"Bah!" the man snorted. "If she keeps on this path ,she will lose her power and just be a mortal female, old and unloved."

"But she will have her honor and her pride."

"Honor. Pride. What are they in the scheme of things?"

"They are all for her," the woman said softly. "'Tis what makes her whole, what makes her human."

The golden-haired man looked at her cynically.

"Honor and pride do not keep you warm on a cold night.

Besides, William is dead now. She is free."

"She is unaware of that fact, my dear."

"Well, A'dryan will not want her by the time she learns of William's death. He will not wait long to find another mate."

"He will wait," the woman smiled. "He loves her."

THIRTY-ONE.

William's form was difficult to get used to. Sardon spent the rest of the day walking around the forest. His customary human shape was small and slight, whereas William had been several inches taller, well muscled, accustomed to wearing chain mail and riding a war horse.

The stupid horse was another matter. It shied violently whenever he came near, not recognizing the strange odor of its master. In his frustration, Sardon cursed the animal and seriously considered just killing it and returning afoot. But that would raise questions, and he did not want questions. He wanted everyone to accept him as William Mirabelle.

His scent. Tempest always seemed to know who he was, no matter what form he took. She had mentioned it on several occasions, had even known when he tried to mask it. If he could fool the horse by imitating William's scent, he could also fool the witch. He must make William's scent his own.

Sardon strolled over to William's body. He looked down at it in disgust. He had hated William's kindness, his weakness when he was living, and he despised him even more dead. The look of utter peace on William's face confused him and Sardon could not tolerate confusion.

He had killed William, but in the end had not defeated him. Viciously, he kicked the body.

"d.a.m.n you, William Mirabelle," he snarled. "May you rot forever on the seventh plane of h.e.l.l." But the look of peace remained, mocking him. No one mocked S'rdonne. No one.

His blood began to boil. The dragon, S'rdonne, began to emerge.

Fire. The beast within grew. Blue flames flew from between dragon teeth and the mocking look on William's face was

burned away forever. The human was now unrecognizable.

William Mirabelle was no more. His family could not mourn him. In fact, his family would never find him. S'rdonne had the final victory.

Sardon, the man, was satisfied as he returned to human form.

But this anger was wasting time. He bent to the corpse and inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of the dead man into himself.

He held it for a long time, letting William's odor seep into his pores, become part of his own substance. Sardon savored the essence of blood and death, but knew he must rid this form of that particular smell. He rolled the death scent into a palpable ball deep in his body, then drew it into his mouth. Loathe to release it, he held it on his tongue, rolled it around, savored it and let it slide down his throat; then brought it back to his mouth and spat it reluctantly upon the ground.

Sardon walked over to William's destrier. The animal looked at him calmly. He put his foot in the stirrup and mounted with no trouble. It had been an excellent idea to stash William's clothing in the woods earlier. He had been well prepared, as usual.

Feeling smug, Sardon di Mercia headed back to Castle Windhaven to complete his plans. As William he would be able to have everything he desired. No one would stand in his way from this time forward. It felt good. It felt very, very good indeed.

"He has done what?" Shock filled Christiana's voice.

"William has gone to kill Sardon," Tempest repeated. "He discovered Sardon was responsible for Clairesse being burned as a witch."

"Clairesse? And just who is Clairesse?" Christiana demanded. "Lord William is to wed you. Is this Clairesse some doxy he has on the side?"

"'Twas long ago, Mother," Tempest answered wearily. "She has been dead many years. I do not want to discuss it. I grow tired and wish to return to my room to rest."

"You can rest later. I want to know of this Clairesse. Now."

Christiana worried any new topic like a cat with a freshly caught mouse.

Tempest sighed and looked around the great hall but could find no one to help. When William entered the room, she saw an escape from Christiana's queries.

"William has returned," she noted. "Ask him about Clairesse." She slipped from the hall while her mother was occupied with William.

Tempest breathed a sigh of relief as she hurried up the narrow staircase. If William had returned, he must have defeated Sardon. She hoped Sardon was dead and in Hades where he belonged. He had murdered Miriam, and she hoped his death had been very painful. Miriam had tried to teach her not to hate, but Sardon had taken her trusted friend, the woman who was more than mother to her. Tempest loathed him. His death would be a blessing for everyone.

She had forgone her early morning fire because she hoped for a warm spring day, but her room was cold, so she slipped beneath the furs on her big bed and snuggled into the deep feather mattress. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

But sleep eluded her. She missed Adrian, missed his quiet smile, his innocent teasing, his touch. G.o.ds how he made her blood hot with his kisses. If only she did not have to marry William. If only she could spend the rest of her life feeling Adrian's kisses brand her body and soul with his love. If only Miriam were here to talk to. If only she had not lied to him, telling him she did not love him. If only...

Sleep claimed her. She dreamed of Adrian. A soft smile spread across her face.

Christiana was driving Sardon mad. Clairesse! He was sick of talking about the woman. The witch had been useless when she was alive and, he thought, mayhap Christiana would soon join her if she did not cease her prattling. 'Twould be an easy and enjoyable task.

"Forgive me, milady," he said. "I must speak to Tempest.

We parted on uneasy terms, and I must make things right before we are wed."

"Of course, William. You will wed soon, and there must be no problems. Will Sardon be back in time for the nuptials?"

"Sardon di Mercia is dead," growled Sardon. "I killed him and left his body for the animals. I will hear his name no more." He turned to leave, ignoring Christiana's suddenly pale features.

"But..." Christiana was shocked. Sardon dead? It could not be.

She silently watched William walk toward the stairs, afraid to ask the many questions burning in her mind. Why had William killed his advisor? Had Sardon somehow unwittingly broke the knight's code of honor? William had looked so angry.

'Twas so unlike the man. G.o.ddess, she would miss her friend, Sardon. He had been such a genteel man.

Christiana picked up her sewing, her thoughts already focused on the new dress she was making for herself. She would talk to Tempest later-after William and her unruly daughter had settled their misunderstanding....

Sardon watched Tempest sleep. Her red hair spilling over the pillows reminded him of the first time he had breathed fire as a hatchling. He smiled. Mayhap it would be no great ch.o.r.e taking the power from this witchling. He would keep her alive until he grew tired of her. He would need a female to help rule William's demesne and to bear his hatchlings. Aye, she would be useful, at least for a time.

After he killed L'sira's git, he would be avenged. L'sira would pay for the past. She would be helpless against his power, she and that hulking black knight she called mate. He could almost smell victory in the air, taste its sweetness on his dragon's tongue.

Tempest's green eyes were open, gazing up at him. Sardon blinked and stepped back.

"William," she queried. "Is Sardon dead?" Tempest sniffed the air cautiously, wondering. She wanted to make sure it was really William. She detected the soft scent of pine, clean and fresh. William must have brushed against a tree when he was out in the woods.

"Aye." Sardon bit back a smile, remembering William's charred body, hidden in the forest. "He will bother us no more."

"He murdered Miriam." Pain filled her voice. "'Twas not Adrian who cut her down but Sardon di Mercia. He deserved to die."

"Will you defend me so pa.s.sionately after we are wed, witchling?" he asked softly, taking a lock of her long red hair in his hand and twisting it idly. "Will you love me as much as you love the hatchling?"

"William?" A look of utter confusion crossed her face. "You use Sardon's words. William?"

"Do I?" Sardon drawled lazily. "I must have spent too much time in his company." His fingers tightened on the lock of hair he held, pulling it just enough to make Tempest uncomfortable.

"Sardon?" She took a deep breath, testing the air.

"Breathe deep, witchling. You will not scent Sardon di Mercia, only William Mirabelle. Do you know, witchling?

Can your witch powers help you now?" He watched her closely behind half-closed eyelids. Lazily, catlike he closed in. He pulled her closer, antic.i.p.ating, feeling her fear grow, waiting.

Waiting for the moment when she was sure, the moment when she would use her powers to defend herself; knowing she would again use fire and lightning; that which only added to his power.

His hand touched her breast. It felt firm, like L'sira's had been so many years ago. He squeezed, hard. His mouth watered as Tempest cried out in pain. She struggled to be free of him, and he savored her fear, tasted it in the air, drew it into his body, used it to make himself stronger.

His eyes glazed; he pushed her back on the bed and spread his powerful body over hers, making her his prisoner. Her frantic struggles were useless against his strength.

His weight on her body pushed the breath out of Tempest, and she could make no sound. She gasped for air and pushed futilely at his chest but could not escape.

He felt himself stiffen as his lower body came in contact with her femininity. The covers were in his way. He could not feel enough. He wanted her. He would not wait for that wedding

nonsense. He would take her. Now. She would yield to him.

Her witch's power would be his.

Sardon tore the covers from between them and ran his hand up under her tunic, up her leg, coming ever closer to his objective. He would ravish her. He would not be gentle with this human. She would learn what dragon mating was like.

Soon. Soon her powers would belong to him. He bent his head to take her lips, to draw her power, to ravish her body and soul.

Tempest bit. Hard. Sardon struggled, trying to escape her sharp, human teeth. She would not release him. His hot, acrid blood began to flow from the wound in his lip.

Pain screamed in his most vulnerable place as Tempest's knee made contact. Never had he felt such agony, bruising, tearing, burning at his lower extremities until his ears rang. In his three hundred years upon Earth he had never felt such pain.

Her knee again came in contact with his groin. He tried to get away, but her teeth held him fast. He tried to scream but the sound came out as a low croak. He tried to reach his ring, to return to his dragon shape. He tried to call up his anger to help him change to his rightful form but could not overcome the searing pain in his lip and in his groin.

Then the power hit. Not S'rdonne's dragon power, but witch's power-angry, cold, defiant power-plumbed from the depths of Tempest's being, drawn from the soul of a true witch, drawn from the souls of all witches from the beginning of time.

Cold. Mind numbing, heart stopping, killing cold seeped into his body. He could not escape. He searched for heat, for some small warmth, but found none, as the cold crept slowly, inexorably toward his evil soul.

"She has the power," the man exclaimed, satisfaction making his deep voice ring. "She has her witch's power."

"Aye," the woman agreed, settling back into her chair.

"She is stronger than I thought. L'sira has been a good teacher."

"'Twas not only L'sira's teaching, m'dear." He rubbed his strong, square chin thoughtfully. "She used cold to destroy

him. She sensed heat was his power. She is a true witch. L'sira just harnessed it."

"Her power will be greater when she mates with the gold,"