Frowning, he moved nearer, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Your conditions are piling high. Surely you do not envision yourself a chatelaine."

"I envision myself comfortable, Roland. Nothing more." She lifted an arm in a sweeping gesture. "Surely you cannot mind if I wish to remove a few cobwebs and a bit of dust."

His eyes narrowed. "I know you too well to believe that is all you will do."

She shrugged, lowering her lashes over downcast eyes. "Well, I was thinking new drapes might be of use. After all, I want to be sure the sun can't penetrate by day."

He gave her a curt nod. "Drapes and dusting, then. That is the extent of it. Agreed?"

"And I wish to keep the fire." She met his gaze again, and the look in her eyes should have warned him. "It gives me that warm, cozy feeling I had when you carried me through the forest in your arms."

"You press your advantage, Rhiannon." His voice had little force behind it. He," too, was remembering the feel of her in his arms, and of her lips upon his throat.

"Oh, but I'm not finished yet." She sat up carefully, and took his hand in two of hers, tracing invisible patterns on his palm with her nails until he shuddered. "I want you to tell me about your life before I met you. I want to know how you became a knight."

"That is not a subject I wish to discuss."

She stared so intently he felt her tugging at the curtains that veiled his mind. "Roland, you've kept your past in side you for a very long time, and a great deal of pain along with it, I believe. You've twisted events until you've branded yourself a devil. Don't you think you might benefit from an objective opinion?"

He felt, oddly enough, an urge to tell her everything. But he feared even that Rhiannon might be repulsed if she knew the entire tale. Then he asked himself if that wouldn't be a good thing. Let her see the blackness in his soul for herself, and perhaps she would finally understand why he kept himself from her. She might even decide she no longer wanted him.

Some time later, he wondered how he had capitulated so easily. What was there about her that usurped his will?

Still, he found himself sitting with his back against the headboard, his legs stretched out over the mattress. Rhiannon snuggled down, her head resting on his thighs. He absently stroked her hair as he spoke.

"I was the youngest of four sons. It was my parents' fondest wish that I enter the monastery. In those times, there was little else for a younger son to do. My becoming a monk would bring prestige and influence to the family name."

Her hand stroked his thigh. Her silken fingers left a fiery path. "You, a monk?" She said it as if it were laughable.

"I felt the same. So, at fourteen, I ran off, determined to make my own way. I wanted nothing more in the world than to become a knight. After two weeks of scrounging myself enough to eat, I came upon a small babe, not yet a full year of age. He sat upon a blanket on the gra.s.s, while his mother and her ladies gathered berries nearby. None of them saw the wolf. But I did."

"A wolf?" Rhiannon's eyes widened and her hand stilled upon his thigh. "Stalking the child? What did you do?"

"Froze with fear, at first. Then the babe looked toward me and smiled. He made this gurgling, cooing sound and waved his chubby hands in the air." Roland shook his head. "I don't know what possessed me, but I drew my knife, the only weapon I had, and I leapt on the wolf as it went for the child. It was a fool's errand. I was nearly torn to shreds."

She sat up slowly, facing him. It surprised him to see her blink fast against a moisture building in her eyes. Her face was so near to his he could feel the quickening of her breaths. "Did you kill this wolf, Roland?"

"Yes, apparently so. I don't remember much after the first few bites." She closed her eyes and shuddered visibly. Her hair fell over one eye, and without thinking, Roland reached out, and moved it aside. His fingers lingered on her face, so soft. He thought he might be absorbed in her eyes, those huge, exotically slanted, jet orbs. "When next I woke, I was in a fine bed, being tended by servants. The child was the grandson of a great baron, and the son of a knight. Sir Gareth of Le Blanc. He took me as his squire when I was healed. For two years, he treated me almost as a son. He taught me all he knew, and allowed me to train with the knights in his outer bailey."

"And you, with your stubborn determination, which I know so well, took to that training with a vengeance. You grew stronger and more skilled with each pa.s.sing day."

He shrugged. "I did pick up some basic skills."

"Tell me the rest." She was like a child asking for a story, he thought idly, his fingers still stroking her hair.

"I was traveling with Sir Gareth one day. There was a tournament he was to attend. Of course, there were others along, knights and their squires who rode with us. A band of knights loyal to a sworn enemy of Gareth's father were waiting in ambush."

She said nothing. But she lifted her hand to touch his face, almost as if she could see the pain of the memory there. "Gareth and the others fought fiercely, and killed several of them, but they were outnumbered." He shook his head slowly, and the past resurfaced as if it were yesterday. The clang of steel upon steel. The shouts and groans of the fallen men. The frantic shrieks of the horses. The pounding hooves.

"When Gareth fell... something happened to me. I don't know what. I found myself dragging him off the battlefield, into the brush, and pulling the helmet and mail coif from his head. With his last breath, he pushed his sword into my hands, and bade me fight on."

"But you were just a boy!"

He shook his head. "Sixteen was near enough to manhood in those times, Rhiannon. You know that. I demanded the other squires a.s.sist me as I removed Gareth's breastplate and hauberk, and put them on. It seemed to take forever, but we accomplished the task in minutes. I donned his coif and helmet, and pulled Gareth's gauntlets onto my hands. With his sword in my grip, and a layer of ice coating my heart, I marched straight into the melee. I was driven by a force I didn't know. It was the demon I've since discovered in my soul.

"I found my master's horse, a ma.s.sive destrier with a taste for battle, and mounted him."

"And you fought in his place," she breathed.

"More than fought. I was enraged. I remember little, other than the endless swinging of the broadsword, and the shattering impact of it when it hit home. I remember the sounds, the screams of the fallen, and my own battle cry. I was a man possessed, Rhiannon. When the battle ended, I alone remained. Dead men surrounded me."

He shook himself of the memory, and gazed into Rhiannon's eyes. He was shocked to see a single tear roll slowly over her face. He leaned forward, for some inexplicable reason, and pressed his lips to it, absorbing its salty taste.

"I've never told this story to another living soul, Rhiannon." His lips moved against her dampened cheek as he whispered the words, and her fingers threaded in his hair.

"Nor will I," she promised. "Not on pain of death." She lowered her head to his shoulder. "What happened next?"

"The squires had scattered, but not far enough that they hadn't witnessed the battle. When we returned to the castle of Gareth's father, they told of what they'd seen. I was treated as some sort of hero. It wasn't long before I was summoned to the court of King Louis, who was a second cousin to Gareth's father, the baron. I was knighted as a reward for what they called valor. I had my wish. But I no longer wanted it. I wanted only to return to my family, and never experience such violence again."

"And did you?"

He forced a smile for her. Her eyelids were drooping. Apparently, Eric's potion was working, for he felt no hint of tiredness. "I'll save the rest of the tale for another night, Rhiannon. You need to sleep now. And heal."

She shook her head as she lifted it from his shoulder. "You loved this Gareth. It is no wonder you fought as you did. Your grief gave you this rage, not some demon."

He closed his eyes, and wished he could believe it were the truth. "Rest, Rhiannon. We'll talk more when you wake."

She lowered herself into the bed until her head again lay in his lap, and her arms encircled his waist. It was exceedingly strange, he thought, that he felt comfortable with her there so close, rather than disturbed. Moreover, the weight on his heart seemed somehow lighter than it had before.

CHAPTER SIX.

As she felt herself falling steadily into the leaden, replenishing sleep, Rhiannon felt the hard length of his thigh beneath her head. For once, she had no desire to seduce him. In fact, she felt closer to Roland than she ever had, and he hadn't so much as kissed her.

A strange turn of events, since she knew full well her feelings for him were only physical in nature.

Still, it was nice, this closeness, this sharing. It felt right, in some way.

It also troubled her. She'd been determined to demonstrate to him that she was as worthy as any male on the planet. She'd been ready to show him she could be just as brave, just as fierce, just as strong. She'd wanted to be certain he could no longer reject her on grounds similar to those her father had used. That she was not good enough.

Now, knowing of his unstinting courage and ferocity in battle, even as a boy, she would have to try harder than ever. A man of such valor would not be easily impressed. A man who, as a mere boy, had thrown himself upon a wolf to save a babe... this was pure heroism, whatever he chose to call it. This would require some thinking.

Before the cloak of blackness settled completely over her mind, she felt the wonderful sensation of his hand cupping her face, his fingers tracing its shape. She smiled... and then she slept.

Roland studied her as she rested, but he couldn't see well enough from his present position. He slid himself from beneath her, and rose. Standing beside the bed, he could gaze down at her face to his heart's content. G.o.d, but she was a beauty. Every delicate bone beneath her satin skin delineated and shaped her face to sheer perfection.

He was suddenly, overwhelmingly, besieged with the urge to paint her portrait. He longed all at once for a brush in his hand, and the smooth feel of oils as he spread them over canvas.

Ah, but that was foolish thinking. Painting was a mortal pursuit. Something best done beneath the sun's golden rays and caressing warmth. It was not the pastime of un-dead, restless souls.

What was it about her that brought out such urges? By the G.o.ds, he'd actually stood in a crowded stadium and cheered on a school soccer team last night! He'd dressed in denims and a sweatshirt, and he'd placed himself into a crowd with countless DPI agents milling about. When was the last time he'd partic.i.p.ated in anything so foolish?

He shook his head. She did have a way of reducing a man to the role of willing servant. Even him.

He knew it beyond any doubt, when, a few seconds later, he gripped her shoulders and rolled her from her side onto her back. She was so perfect. He had to see her, just see her. Though he had no intention of indulging himself in the luxury of reproducing her image on canvas, he could at least appreciate what was here before him.

He reached for the shirtfront, and hesitated. Was it wrong to look at her this way, as she rested, helpless to object?

He closed his eyes. No. Rhiannon wouldn't object in the least.

He released the b.u.t.tons, the few she'd bothered to fasten. Slowly, very slowly, he parted the garment until her body was revealed to him. His sigh was involuntary, and indicative of how much he'd longed to look at her this way.

His gaze traced her arching, graceful neck to the delicately etched collarbones. Lower, to her small, proud b.r.e.a.s.t.s, perfectly round and lily-white. Their centers were the subtle color of the meat of a sweet melon. Their nipples pouted. He wouldn't paint her that way, though. If he were intending to capture her image, he'd tease them taut first, so they thrust outward, tempting a man's lips to touch them.

The way he was tempted now. Just to capture one soft bud between his lips, to suckle it until it became hard, until it throbbed against his tongue.

He swallowed hard against the onslaught of desire, and resumed his perusal of her form, letting his gaze move lower, over the gentle swell of her belly, the dark hollow of her navel, the narrow curve of her waist with the painful wound on one side, the soft flare of her hips. The triangle of sable curls. G.o.d, it gleamed like satin. He wanted to touch it, to see if it could truly be as soft as it looked.

Before he could tell himself not to, he was doing just that. His fingers settled themselves into the silken nest. Yes. It was as soft as it appeared. Softer. And though he knew he should not, he moved his fingers lower, parting her secret lips, delving into her. When he felt the answering moistness coat his fingers, he closed his eyes and groaned aloud. He sunk onto the bed, leaning nearer. Her subtle scent reached him and he shuddered. He moved his fingers deeper, then slowly drew them back. Her body trembled, and he looked up quickly.

She lay exactly as she had, perfectly still. But her nipples stood stiff and aroused now. He brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes closing involuntarily as he sucked the taste of her from their tips. He wanted her. More than wanted her, he had to have her. If not physically, then at least...

Roland stepped away from the bed, but his gaze remained. He had to capture her on canvas. There was no other way to rid himself of- this all-consuming l.u.s.t. True, he hadn't painted in a very long time. He'd lost the desire, or perhaps the ability to pour his soul onto a rectangle of canvas. Suddenly, now, that desire returned. He'd never thought to feel it again.

Today, this once, he would put brush to canvas. And when his little bird took wing, he'd have a bit of her here, with him.

In the hours of earliest dawn, behind the tightly drawn draperies and beneath a cobweb-draped ceiling, Roland worked with materials that had long ago been packed away in trunks. The oils were newer. He'd been unable to resist buying the new, modern paints whenever he'd seen them. It had become a ritual of self-torment, knowing they were at hand, and wondering if he'd ever feel moved to use them. Now, the smell of the paints in his nostrils was like a drug, and his brush flew over the canvas as an extension of his soul.

He didn't sketch her first. He didn't need to do so. He needed only to look at her, stretched upon the bed like an offering to the G.o.ds, and allow his image of her to transfer itself from his eyes to his mind to his hands.

He worked feverishly, losing himself utterly in the act of creation in a way he had not done in years. His hands moved the brush with a touch as gentle as if he were caressing her skin.

And then, almost before he'd been aware a minute had pa.s.sed, he sensed movement in the castle. Jamey was awake, and Frederick. Even now they were making their way down to the great hall, and then off to the lower east wing, where the kitchens awaited them.

He sighed, saddened at having to give up so soon. He'd forgotten the delight he could feel in such a simple act. He'd accomplished so little. The shapes and colors on the canvas were not recognizable. But he knew they'd take form, gradually, over the next several days.

He reluctantly cleaned his brushes and put his paints away. The canvas, he left, to allow it to dry. He'd be sure it was stored safely long before Rhiannon stirred tonight. Not that he thought she would mind him so closely studying her nude form as she rested. He rather thought the idea would please her.

Lastly, he went to the bed, gazing once more at her nakedness. The length and firmness of her legs enticed him, with flickering images of those shapely limbs wrapped around his body, those curving hips pumping against him.

He was aroused. Painfully so. He realized that he had been the entire time he'd been painting. He closed his eyes and tried not to think that he could strip off his clothing and slip into the bed with her. He could fondle her, touch her, taste her to his heart's content, and she would never know. He could bury himself inside her. He could find release in her succulent moistness, and she'd never be the wiser.

He bent over, blowing a cool breath of air across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to see the nipples stand hard once more. Her response was immediate. Perhaps he could even bring her to climax without her being aware of it.

The thought was enticing--no, maddening. To elicit the ultimate response from her body without the awareness of her mind. By night, he could remain as resistant to her charms as he wished. By day, she could be his to pleasure.

The temptation was great, nearly too great. He took a firm grip on his mind, realizing that once again the beast inside was trying to take over. To use Rhiannon in such a way would be rape. Whether he knew she wouldn't object or not was not the issue. To take her without her consent would be unforgivable. Was this the way he would repay her for the sheer joy she'd given him?

Joy?

Roland blinked, replaying his own thoughts. Yes. Joy was what he'd felt for those brief hours this morning while he'd been painting. And earlier, when he'd watched Jamey fight his way to victory in the soccer match. He'd felt joy then, too. Absolute pleasure. Delight.

He hadn't thought himself capable of feeling any of those things anymore.

He looked at her face, and shook his head. Who'd have thought a reckless, out of control, renegade vampiress like Rhiannon could instigate the return of pleasure in his life?

He pulled the shirt together, and fastened the b.u.t.tons. He tugged the comforter over her, then bent low, and pressed his lips to hers. They were moist and pliant and sweet, even in sleep. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, tasting every part of it, only stopping when he felt madness trying to engulf him.

"Thank you, Rhianikki, princess of the Nile."

Roland was nowhere about when she rose. But she wrinkled her nose at the very slight scent in the air. She sniffed again, and frowned. It smelled a little like paint.

Unable to positively identify the lingering odor, she rolled out of the bed before she gave the wound at her waist a thought. She stiffened as she remembered it, half expecting to be pummeled by pain at any second. She wasn't, though, and when she parted the shirt she wore, she saw that the wound was gone without a trace. Only the tiny st.i.tches remained. The area wasn't even sore.

She got to her feet and strolled about the chambers, whipping open wardrobes and peering into closets in search of something to wear. She didn't find anything, but decided not to let it dampen her spirits. She felt good this evening.

After hearing him talk last night, she'd come to the conclusion that Roland was suffering from a ridiculously prolonged state of depression and a severe guilt complex. But since he'd opened up that painful wound and allowed her to see a little of what caused it, he might be better able to heal. And that thought brought her pleasure. She hated to see him tormenting himself over things long past. It was a waste of his time and his energies. Besides, he ought to be spending both on her. It would be a far more exciting exercise.

The door opened and he entered then, bringing with him a heavy decanter made of lead crystal and filled with crimson liquid. He placed it on a stand, and a gla.s.s beside it.

She frowned. "What is this?"

"Nourishment. You need it, after last night."

"What I need is warm, and drawn straight from some innocent throat, Roland."

"Rhiannon, that is murder."

"Still perfectly willing to believe the worst of me, I see." She strode toward him, the shirt gaping in a way he could not fail to notice. "I never murder them. I only taste. A sip here, a sip there. It isn't missed." She was teasing him, and delighting in it as she always did.

His gaze seemed drawn to the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s the shirt revealed, so she stepped closer, and bent low to reach for the decanter.