How she remembered those eyes.

His lips moved.

"Igrainia."

He whispered the name out loud. And she knew.

Even vampires dreamed.

Dreamed of the past.

Of mortal days gone by.

Chapter Four.

985 A.D.

The West Central Coast, Scotland

"Dragons! Dragons on the horizon! Deliver us, oh, G.o.d! Dragon ships sail the horizon."

Lucian heard the cry while studying the delicate gold workings of an Irish metallurgist at the spring market Igrainia was at his side; she had just let out a soft cry of delight at the beauty of a jeweled cross. Having just haggled over the price of the work with the artisan, Lucian had barely hooked the piece around her neck when he heard the alarm. He looked up sharply. From where he stood he could just see the high mast of the ship coming into view above the cliffs before the harbor. It was the year of our Lord 985 A.D., and he was well aware of the meaning of the dragon ships on the horizon. Like that of many a Scotsman along the coast, his blood was mixed with that of earlier invaders, mainly Norman, English, and Norse. Though the attacks had somewhat lessened in the last fifty years, they still came frequently.

There were great prizes to be found on this coast, for like the Celtic Irish across the sea, the people here, led by monks and their students, were undergoing a great age in the creation of jewelry, church relics, and bound and gilded ma.n.u.scripts. True though it might be that the average young man eking a living from the craggy soil did not read- and that superst.i.tion and the old ways persisted side by side with the teachings of Christ-the priests and clerics learned G.o.d's word from the beautifully crafted books the monks labored so hard to produce.

Necklaces, earrings, rings, and more were fashioned by a rare breed of talented artists, and so there were many such riches to be plundered.

Screams went up, rising higher and higher on the wind, which suddenly seemed to blow with a tempest-an omen of what was to come. Fire pots fell over, canopies fell, and Lucian gripped his bride by the shoulders. "Go!" he told her.

Her eyes met his. They were a blue-green color, as beautiful as the sea beneath the sun. They met his with simple understanding. She was to run to the cliffs; as wife of the chieftain she would gather other women and children as best she could, and stay until the danger was over. A daughter of ancient kings and Viking lords, she was proud, and a fighter, but she knew as well that men too often gave their lives to save their women, and that her greatest contribution to the fight would be to leave him with the a.s.surance that she was safe.

"Husband!" she said softly, rose on her toes, and kissed his lips.

The word was still precious to her. Then she spun around, calling out that others must follow her.

"Stand stalwart, sons of MacAlpin!" Lucian cried out, reminding them of the first king to draw the great tribes of Scotland together as one nation-a nation that now only faced the dissidence of the Viking colonies settled firmly upon certain of the isles and lands they had wrested from the tribes previously established here. They were kindred; they were enemies-they all sought a livelihood, and violence was part of life.

As much a part of life as the delicately worked beauty of the gold and jeweled cross that Igrainia now wore as she raced to their lair. "Stand!" Lucian roared again, running through the crowd to reach Malachi, his great black warhorse. He mounted while drawing his sword. The huge black horse reared, and he allowed it the freedom, drawing the attention of his people to him. "Stand!" he shouted again.

"Stand-or die! And give over to the heathens all that is yours!"

His cry roused the courage of his men. They ceased to run like scattered ashes, and those who had fought as warriors before came to their arms and their horses, and those who were farmers and herders went for their pikes and their scythes. "Archers, to the cliffs!" he ordered, and though the wind continued to blow, and a clap of thunder raged across the sky, there was order as men rushed to do as he had bidden. He dug his leather-clad heels into Malachi's haunches and rode for the cliffs, ordering the men to positions, watching as the Viking ships neared. There were three of them, each dragon-prowed and filled with men of the Scandinavian nations, warriors, berserkers, adventurers who believed that death in battle would do nothing but bring them to the halls of Valhalla, their heaven, to sit at the side of Wodin, their great G.o.d.

"Now!" he cried to his clansmen who had scrambled up the craggy rock to attack the foe while still at sea.

Arrows flew.

Vikings, startled by such a land attack, screamed. And many died.

"Again!" he shouted.

And so again arrows flew, and again invaders died.

But not enough.

The ships had reached the harbor. The enemy plunged off their ships into the shallow waters; they defied the cold and the wet and the wind and the rain of death.

Lucian rode out to meet the coming horde.

It was then that he first saw her.

She stood at the bow of one of the great ships, as straight, defiant, and stalwart as the fierce dragon-headed prow of the vessel. She was startling there, for though there were a few darker-headed men among the warriors, her long hair was raven black, and contrasted sharply with that of most of the men who plunged to the sh.o.r.e.

Beneath a rich cloak of fur, she wore a gown as black as the raven's wing of her hair. A vee in the cut of the dark linen revealed the long, graceful line of her throat and the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Between them, even at this distance, he could see the fine gold work of the pendant that dangled between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

But his eyes were drawn to her face.

Her chin was high; her eyes were wide, sparked with the fire of battle-and amus.e.m.e.nt.

She ignored the rain of arrows that whistled through the air, arcing and falling like a great thunderstorm.

Equally, she ignored the screams of men and horses, the agony of the dying.

She stood clad in her cloak of ermine, and watched the carnage without blinking, never once shrinking from the threat of any danger.

A great berserker with fire red hair charged Lucian. He brought down his war sword-a Viking weapon itself, inherited from an antecedent-and felled the man with a powerful blow to his back. His father had taught him the advantage of staying mounted when men on foot attacked-the power of a blow delivered from on high.

And so he kept his seat upon Malachi, hacking and slicing those who would unhorse him. The redhead was followed by an ice blond, an old warrior-ready to fly to Valhalla, he determined. A young man then- followed by a maddened berserker whose mouth was flecked with foam as he fought. They died. The shallows before him had become a pool of men, blood, and churning sea.

The attackers lay before him. He tensed for the next a.s.sault. He looked again at the ship, and saw that she was watching him, her lips curled with amus.e.m.e.nt. The fight was great entertainment for her.

He hadn't realized that he had not been able to draw his eyes from hers until men a.s.saulted him from the rear.

Malachi kicked and reared, downing a screaming man, thrashing him in the water. But there were half a score of men upon Lucian now, and despite his experience in the saddle and his fury with the sword, he was dragged from Malachi. He struggled, slashed out, and when he lost his sword, he fought with his fists. His attackers dragged him down in the water, and his lungs began to burst, and he fought free. Fumbling in the frigid water at the sh.o.r.eline, he found his sword. He stumbled up. The cold water chilled the small coat of mail he wore, and made his leather coat and boots heavy. But bursting to the surface, he saw that he was surrounded.

And worse. With his back to his ships, his eyes on the sh.o.r.eline, he saw that the Vikings had broken the farmers. He and his men had fought well, but there had been too many of the enemy, and not enough time for help to come from up or down the coast, or inland.

And they had caught up with the fleeing women and children.

"Give over, Chieftain, and we will let them live."

He heard her voice. She spoke Scots Gaelic with a melodic rhythm to her voice.

Oddly, she was no longer on the ship, but stood before him. Or seemed to stand. The hem of her black gown appeared to ride above the surface. He thought he must have received a tremendous blow to his head, because she seemed to be standing on water.

"What guarantee?" he demanded.

She arched a brow, still very amused. She turned back to the sh.o.r.e with a shrug. "Free the children ... let those flat-footed farmers there run with them. Let go the silly peasant la.s.ses there, and the women . . .

except for that one."

She had pointed to Igrainia.

Could she recognize the wife of the chieftain?

"That one!" she commanded to one of her warriors. "Take that one and behead her, so that he will know we have no mercy."

His heart slammed against his chest.

"Let her go, or I swear I will kill you myself. I, too, can have no mercy."

She looked back at him, a winged dark brow rising. "Chieftain, I do find you . . . curious." she said. The sound of laughter was in her voice.

"Let us barter with the chieftain here. He desires it, so leave the la.s.s her head!" she ordered.

"Lucian! Give over nothing for me! Barter nothing for my life!"

Igrainia cried fiercely.

"She asks to die!" the woman said.

"Don't touch her!" Lucian commanded.

The woman smiled slowly. There was a curve of cruelty to her lips.

With the wind now raging around her, she seemed a greater menace than any storm.

"I will try to refrain," the woman said. Her fingers curled around the gold pendant she wore.

He was as still and silent as she. "Now-give over your sword."

"Let her go with the rest of them," he said, indicating his wife.

The woman watched him a long moment, then walked toward him. It seemed that she barely stirred the water. He did not believe in such things, but by G.o.d, she walked over the water.

Sorceress!

He heard the whisper rise from the sh.o.r.e. Christianity had come here, to the British Isles, several hundred years ago.

But old superst.i.tions remained.

Witch! Aye, she was some kind of witch. She practiced magic, the darkest kind.

Illusions! he told himself.

Don't believe what you see!

"You do not need her," the woman told him. "You will have me."

Illusion! he reminded himself. Deny her!

But his lips were heavy; his throat seemed rigid; words would not form. He looked at her, and fought to shift his gaze.

He managed to speak at last. "I have no need for a witch such as you."

Her subtle smile deepened.

"You lie."

And he did lie.

She had a power.

There was something about here . . . something that created a fire in his groin, a hunger unlike any he had known. He wanted to touch her.

With his wife, whom he adored, standing in peril before him, with an audience of warriors and farmers and children, with G.o.d above ... he wanted her. In the water, the dirt, the mud. Now. He burned.

He fought for his senses. Strained, ached. "Let her go. Let her run after the children then."

She c.o.c.ked her head at him, her eyes amused, ever more intrigued.

"Tell me to come to you."

"What?"

"Invite me ... to know you."

"Know me, madam, have what you want; do what you will. But let the woman go!" Her smile deepened with wicked triumph and she turned. "Let her go."

The men released Igrainia.

Her eyes met his. For a moment he was released from the woman's uncanny hold. G.o.d, how he loved his wife! Her eyes, her laughter, the softness of her voice, her quest for knowledge, her love of books, learning, art...

He inclined his head. Run! Help me fight for my own life, knowing you wait for me.

Igrainia's eyes held his a moment longer.

Then she ran after the children. He knew that the Viking warriors could easily run after them again. His men were dead, broken, injured, shattered. The Viking crew knew it, too.