Demon's Bride

Chapter 7

Anne felt a change during the ride back to Bloomsbury. A crisis point, after which nothing would be the same. She didn’t know if it was him, or her. Perhaps they were both transformed. The carriage ride felt both interminable and brief. Across from her sat Leo, and passing torchlight flickered on and off his face. One moment, he became a vision of golden masculinity, the next steeped him in darkness, save for the gleam of his eyes. Both aspects frightened and intrigued her.

For the whole of the ride, he did not attempt to touch her. Neither spoke. Despite the chill outside, the atmosphere within the carriage felt hotter and heavier than any tropics. She breathed in, and felt every one of her nerves absorb the heat.

From the time she left her home this evening to now, she had transformed in a way even she did not fully understand. She felt the profundity of her body, its taut anticipation, and also the barely leashed hunger in his.

“Sit beside me,” she said into the darkness.

“Can’t.” His voice was an almost subterranean rumble. “I touch you, I won’t stop. And I’ll not take your virginity in a carriage.”

Anne did not know one could engage in lovemaking in a carriage. Now that he had introduced the idea, though, her mind filled with possibilities. It wasn’t capacious, but surely there was room enough, and the curtains could be drawn ...

“Stop.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know what you’re thinking, and if you keep thinking it, I’ll make it happen.”

“Perhaps I want you to.” God! She could hardly believe she had said that! Yet this night was abounding with possibility, just as she was.

Leo growled a curse. “Not in a damned carriage. Not the first time.”

A sultry need spread through her when she considered that at some point in the future, he might very well take her in a carriage. Or she might take him. Anything could happen.

She felt giddy with power. Hers, and his. For she had discovered her own potential at Lord Overbury’s. She had revealed her deepest secrets to Leo: that her love of cartography had led to thievery. Yet he had not chastised her, nor expressed disgust at her actions. He admired her for all of that, and she learned to value herself.

Never before this night had men looked at her the way Leo had. And he wasn’t the only one with frank interest in his gaze. When she stopped concerning herself with how others saw her, suddenly there were men everywhere, even asking her to dance.

She drew a visceral, primitive thrill from watching Leo stalk across the chamber to claim her, taking her away from her dancing partner. Nothing refined or cultured in his behavior. He simply took what he wanted. And what he wanted was her.

He still did. And Lord save her, she wanted him.

At last the carriage rolled to a stop outside their home. Before the footman could come and open the door, Leo already had thrown it wide and had leapt down. He reached in for her. His hands spanned her waist, swinging her down onto the sidewalk. She had no awareness of the street, of the servants, of anything but him staring down at her.

“You aren’t afraid.”

She shook her head. “Not anymore.”

Animal need flared in his storm gray eyes, and his hands tightened around her waist. “To hell with waiting.”

He released his clasp of her middle, only to thread his fingers with hers, then took the steps with long-legged strides. Fortunately, Anne felt the same urgency, and kept pace. In a moment, they were inside and hurrying up the stairs leading to their bedchamber.

Leo pushed the door open. Only the fire was lit, and the room held a dark, flickering glamour, like stories of ancient fairy kingdoms beneath the hills. In those stories, young girls wandered into the kingdoms, lured by sinister, beautiful Fae princes to become ageless consorts. Their families in the mortal world mourned their disappearance, little knowing the truth behind the loss.

As Leo drew her deeper into the bedchamber, its red walls bathed in firelight, she felt herself one of those folktale girls beneath the hills, and could not mind that she would never again see the sun.

Meg appeared in the doorway.

“I don’t need you tonight.” Anne’s gaze never left Leo.

“But your gown—”

“I’ll see to it,” said Leo. He, too, did not look away, but stared at Anne with fire in his eyes as they stood by the foot of the bed. “Close the door.”

If Meg answered or did as she was bade, Anne never knew. She saw only Leo, heard only the harsh rasp of his breathing and the thick beat of her heart.

Leo stepped toward her. She met him halfway.

Anne wrapped her arms around his wide, hard shoulders, sank her fingers into his hair after tugging it free of its queue. His hands splayed across her back, pulling her tight against him. They were large, and rough, yet she felt both fragile and resilient beneath them. They each drew in a breath, taking air from each other, and their mouths met.

What had begun in the Overburys’ foyer served merely as prelude. The heat and need that had been building gradually over days, weeks, lifetimes finally ignited. Their lips shaped each other’s, testing, tasting. Exploratory and claiming. She felt his hunger, his demand, and it didn’t frighten her. Her own desire did not send her, shivering and protective, into herself. She drew on their mutual need, took sustenance from it.

His tongue slicked inside her mouth, and she stroked it with her own. His response came in his growl, and his hand moving down her back to pull her hips snug against his own. As snug as he could, given the mass of her skirts, panniers, and petticoats.

He broke the kiss with a snarl. “I need to feel you, damn it. See you.”

They both battled with her clothing, undoing the hooks beneath her stomacher, loosening ties, undoing tapes. Together, they peeled away rustling layers of silk, the gown pooling on the floor. She stepped out of her shed clothing, kicking off her heeled slippers, and stood before him in her underclothes.

Craving his touch once more, she moved toward him, but he gently held her back.

“Let me see you, Anne. Let me see my prize.”

Her face flamed with a combination of embarrassment and desire, yet she kept herself still and let him look his fill. He was all bestial hunger as he stared at her, his gaze roving over her with hot possession. She knew she could show herself like this to him—these past days had shaped a trust between them, and she gave herself to that trust.

The cotton of her chemise was thin as a sigh, her peach-hued nipples and dark golden curls between her legs plainly visible. Light as it was, the gauzy fabric still felt heavy against her skin. She saw in Leo’s ravenous gaze that she was beautiful, and it fed her power.

She stepped closer, and his hands came up, roaming over her body, stroking along her shoulders, down her arms, tracing patterns between her breasts and the curve of her belly. His touch filled her with sharpening crests of need. When he cupped her breasts and teased her nipples into harder points, awareness coalesced into an exquisite ache.

Wanting more, she rose up on her toes and kissed him, open-mouthed. They groaned at the sensation. He took and he gave, and as her hands gripped his shoulders, the trembling she felt was not merely her own, but his. This, too, strengthened her, and she pressed closer, rubbing her thighs and the tips of her breasts against him.

Hotter air touched her as he gathered up and discarded her chemise.

She was utterly exposed. Instinctive modesty made her turn away, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No, no.” He gently turned her to face him. “This is me. This is what we’ve made between us.”

His gaze burned hot, yet beneath shone tenderness and acceptance.

Drawing a breath, she let her arms lower to her sides. Allowing him to see her.

He recognized what this meant, and as he looked his fill, she saw both his sensual hunger and his pleasure in her trust. Yet he did not simply look. He stepped toward her, and then his broad hands were everywhere, caressing her naked skin. Her back. The curve of her buttocks. Her breasts. Her skin became unbearably sensitive, yet the flood of sensation was too good, too wondrous, and she couldn’t find words to make him stop. She didn’t want him to stop.

She moved to untie her garters and roll down her stockings.

“Leave them.” His fingers trailed over the ribbons and silk, then higher, to the bare flesh of her thighs. “Soft here. So damned soft. And here”—his fingers glided higher, and she tensed in anticipation—“softer still.”

Her arms wrapped around him. She held herself in readiness, dizzy with the feel of his still-clothed body against her own naked skin, the tremors of need that wracked them both.

Then his fingers found her. Her most intimate place. She cried out in pleasure, the sudden and yet inevitable beauty of it. He stroked her, spreading wetness, learning her secrets.

“Ah, Leo.” She writhed against him.

“Have you done this, Anne?” His voice was hoarse, demanding. “Have you touched yourself? Made yourself come?”

With anyone else, the questions would have embarrassed her, yet she knew this man, her husband, and to hear him speak thus and answer in kind felt precisely right.

“Yes.” She gasped into his mouth. “Yet it was never like this.”

He groaned. “Spread your legs. Give me more.”

This was to be a night of discovery. She had often wondered how it must feel to stand on the deck of a ship and see an unknown coastline approach, never before encountered. The fear and excitement of new territory. Part of her wanted to stay within the confines of safety, her narrow world. But here was a chance to be the explorer she had longed to be. Summoning her courage, she whispered, “Let me touch you, too.”

His gaze flared, recognizing her bravado. Yet he shook his head. “Your pleasure first.” He walked them back to the bed, and guided her to drape beside him. As she lay on her back, he propped himself up on his side. He cupped the back of her head with one hand, and with the other, he dipped between her legs.

She arced as he caressed her, her legs flung wide, her hands buried in his hair. If she did not hold tight, she was certain she would float up and never stop. His touch was relentless, tender. He circled and rubbed at her pearl. Two of his fingers stroked her cleft, lightly sinking inside, testing only the opening. Everything inside her tightened in preparation.

“Leo, I—”

“Yes.”

It grew within her, a rising sensation that originated between her legs yet permeated every part of her. She craved it; she feared it.

“Give me your trust.” He continued to stroke her, drawing her forth. “As I give you mine.”

She saw the truth of this in his face, tight with need, yet open and unafraid. Him, only him.

The climax demolished her. And built her stronger. It filled her body with a pleasure that seemed too much to bear, yet she took it, took what it gave her, what Leo drew from her body. She could not even scream. Her mouth opened. No noise came out. Only a silent cry of release that was too intense for sound.

“Never,” she murmured when she could speak. “Never like that.”

A look of harsh triumph crossed his face. “Mine to give you. Everything else—gowns, money—those are only things. Anyone can have things. But this. This is more. This is ours.” He slowly sank a finger deep into her tight passage, and she gasped at the new sensation. It took her several breaths before her body eased, permitting him access.

When he added a second finger, stretching her, she winced and sucked in a breath.

He stopped immediately, his fingers still within her, but motionless.

She wanted to retreat, but would not permit herself to hide. “Keep going.” She lifted her hips. “I want everything.”

For a moment, he remained immobile. And then he grew sharper, darker as his gaze burned. His fingers left her, and he rose up to stand beside the bed, tearing at his garments as if they were on fire.

He stared at her as, layer by layer, he undressed. All his exquisite tailoring meant nothing, just an impediment. His coat, his waistcoat. He peeled off his stockings, revealing thickly muscled calves. It took him two attempts to undo the buttons fastening his breeches. When, at last, the buttons slipped free, he shoved his breeches down along with his smallclothes.

Anne could not look away from his erect penis. She had never before seen an aroused man, and the sight was far more compelling than any statue or painting. He was thick and slightly curved, with a gleaming, broad head.

His low chuckle brought her attention back up to his face. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You were a zephyr waiting to become a tempest.”

She was wry. “Another investment pays off.”

Yet he shook his head. “This isn’t business. We waited for a reason. So it could be more than cold commerce.”

“I am assuredly not cold.”

Leo grasped the hem of his shirt, the only article of clothing he still wore. Then hesitated, frowning.

Desire made her audacious. She knew what his body felt like beneath his clothing, and understood that it would rival even the sunrise for beauty. “Don’t be shy. Let me see you, too.”

“I have ... marks.”

“It does not matter.”

To her disappointment, he lowered his hands. “Not yet.” Then he knelt on the bed and lowered himself beside her. She would have voiced her complaint—that it did not matter to her if he had scars or any disfigurement, because to her, he would never be anything other than magnificent—but his kiss stole her words.

They wrapped around each other, and she discovered she loved the contrast of his muscular, hairy legs with her soft, smooth limbs. The burning heat of his body soaked into hers, even with his shirt between them, and as their mouths met and devoured, his erection pushed insistently toward her. He left slick trails on her belly. Leo rolled them over, positioning himself above her, then slid his penis between her folds, teasing without entering her.

It felt so strange, to have someone other than herself give her pleasure, conferring such personal demands to another. Yet it made sense, for if anyone could touch her so intimately, it must be Leo.

He touched her like this; pleasure built again, pushing away lingering traces of apprehension.

“Kiss me,” he said, a hoarse demand.

She arched up, her open mouth to his. At the same time, he thrust into her.

Pain and pleasure collided. She had no sense of which was which. They were the same. And, oh, he was thick within her, filling her. He was everywhere inside her. A moment’s panic. It was too much. She would be lost. He was too hard, too male, too everything.

Yet after that initial thrust, he was still, and Anne willed her eyes open to see him above her. His face contorted, torn between pleasure and anguish. He held himself back savagely as her body learned the feel of his. The only sounds in the chamber were the muted pops of the fire, and his harsh breathing.

She relaxed into the sensation, allowing herself to experience this newness, for it was exotic, his body within hers. Yet true and right. Fear ebbed. Pleasure took its place.

Tentative, Anne brought her legs up, and wrapped them around his. His eyes flew open, silver and bright. He groaned her name. In response, she curled her fingers into his shoulders, feeling the bunch and strain of muscle beneath the cambric.

“I want ...”

“Tell me,” he urged gravelly.

An experiment: She tilted her hips. He moved within her. Pleasure followed, streaking through her hotly. “More.”

“You can bear it.”

“Anything.”

He took her mouth, kissing her deeply. And his body began to move. Sliding forward, gliding back. She had imagined this moment many times—what it would be like to have a man inside her—and the truth far outpaced what she had envisioned. For the shadowy man of her imagination had no true will of his own, no real need. But Leo did. He had strength and hunger, entirely his own, and these she felt with every movement of his narrow hips.

She was not still, could not be passive. Her body had its own will. She met his thrusts, and pulled him tighter. Pain limned the edges of sensation; it swirled through her in a spiral of dark and light.

The world spun further, and she realized that Leo had actually turned over onto his back with her clasped against him, his body still deep inside hers. He sat up and edged backward, until he leaned against the carved headboard and Anne straddled him. The posture was altogether wicked, for it allowed her to see everything—him, his face harsh with need, the shirt clinging to his slick torso and arms. She saw herself, too, nude save for her garters and stockings.

He gripped her hips. “Look down.”

She did. What she saw made her gasp.

“That’s my cock.” His voice was no more than a snarl. “Mine. Inside you. Can you see that?”

“I ... can.”

“Watch.” He pulled back a little, and she saw inches of his ... cock ... sliding out of her. Then he surged forward, and she moaned to see him sink into her, disappearing all the way to the root. Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, she would never have believed she could contain his length, yet she saw and felt and knew.

She was truly his wife, in every way. Just as he was her husband, in all meanings.

“Now.” He released his bruising hold on her hips, and grasped the headboard, his arms outstretched. His eyes glittered. “You take us there, Anne. Show me. Show us both.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” His jaw tightened. “The whole time. It’s been there. In you.”

For a moment, she hesitated, uncertain. It came to her: an image of herself this very night, crossing the floor of the assembly, her chin tipped up. She had been seen by everyone, and drew strength from it. It gathered in her now, her capability. Leo had shown her the path, and she walked it using the strength of her own legs.

Had he wanted to, he could have lain her down and taken her, controlling every movement and sensation. But he wanted more than that, more from her. A challenge. She would meet that challenge.

Settling her hands on his shoulders, Anne pulled her hips up, just a little. Again, that wondrous sliding within her. Then she sank down. As she did, her pearl rubbed against him.

“Oh.” She dragged in a breath. “That’s ...”

“Yes.” The cords of his neck stood out.

Anne moved again, and once again. She discovered angles, speeds. Her hands clutched him tightly, so tightly she feared she might tear his shirt and mark his skin. Part of her wanted to mark him, but she did not want to cause him pain. She grabbed the headboard, as well, and saw his knuckles whiten.

Rational thought slipped away. Anne rode him. He stretched beneath her, arching up. Her gasps joined with his groans, and the room resonated with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh.

This time, when her climax arrived, she could not be silent. At her scream, his hands released the headboard. He seized her hips, his head fell back, and his whole body went rigid.

He had never looked more beautiful, carved as a statue.

Finally, release faded, loosening its grip on both of them. They could only pant and stare at each other, sated and amazed.

Concepts, thoughts, words—all vanished. She knew only the resonance of her body and the feel of him against, and within, her. Gradual as a feather drifting in circles to earth, she regained use of her mind.

She wondered: What was one supposed to say in a situation like this? Thank you? It seemed a paltry phrase to enclose a world far bigger than any atlas.

So she let actions and silence serve her better. Her fingers cramped as she released the headboard, but they relaxed as she cupped his face. His stubble prickled against her palms.

He stared at her, grave, marveling, yet when she lowered her mouth to his, his eyes drifted shut, and he took her kiss readily.

We are outcasts no longer.

He didn’t want to, but Leo needed to get up from the bed. Reluctantly, he disentangled his limbs from Anne’s, and left her murmuring and drowsy as he padded into the closet. By the light of a single taper, he stripped off his shirt. He took a cloth and dipped it in the water-filled basin. With movements made hasty from eagerness to return to her, he cleaned himself off.

Blood streaked over his cock. Not much, but enough to prove that, for all her responsiveness and innate sensuality, he was Anne’s first lover.

First and only. For himself, he was glad of his experience, if only to have made it good for her. Thinking of her sighs and moans, the way she moved, the pleasure she took from him, his cock stirred. He wanted more.

A folded nightshirt awaited him on a small table. God, he hated having to wear it.

He walked to the glass on the table, adjusted it to get the right angle. Turning, he looked over his shoulder to see the reflection of his back.

Images of flames covered his skin there. They appeared to be drawn directly on his flesh with black ink, yet he knew that nothing could wash them away. The flames began just below his nape, spread across his shoulders, and twisted down along the length of his spine.

He did not regret his gifts from Mr. Holliday, but something about the image of flames writhing across his skin made him feel sick dread.

His resolve strengthened never to let Anne see the markings, nor understand their meaning.

Which meant he would be forced either to make love to her in utter darkness, or to wear a damned shirt when he did. And though he had always slept nude, he had to endure wearing this sodding nightshirt like some doddering old man.

He turned away from the mirror. Sleeping in a nightshirt was a small sacrifice if it meant having Anne beside him. He quickly tugged the thing on, then took a fresh cloth and dampened it. After blowing out the candle, he returned to the bedchamber.

Anne stretched out atop the bedclothes, sleek and soft and delicious as she lay on her stomach. She had taken the last of the pins from her hair, and the mass of it spread around her in silken profusion. At his approach, she smiled. Something seized within him, something tight in his chest.

Wife. He felt he understood the meaning of the word now, its significance. By giving her his name, he had pledged to her his care, his protection. And he vowed it to himself now, more binding than any words spoken by a reverend.

Seeing the cloth in his hand, she reached for it, but he held it away.

“Let me,” he said.

As she turned over and leaned back on her elbows, the embers of desire roused. She was beautiful to look upon—her lush breasts tipped with coral, the curve of her belly, her pretty little quim, the suppleness of her arms and legs. Her body held more strength than one would have guessed, for she had gripped him hard. He was glad of it. Rather than pliancy, he wanted strength to match his own.

“I like how you look at me now,” she murmured.

His gaze flew up to hers. The stain of passion still tinted her cheeks, and she wore a timeless little smile. It pleased him, knowing he put that smile upon her lips, that she could be so free with him.

“I like looking at you.” He curled one leg under him as he sat beside her. Carefully, in slow, tender circles, he ran the cloth over her. He frowned at the smears of blood at the tops of her thighs. “It hurt.”

“Some. Less than I thought it might.”

“But it felt good, too.” The need to please her burned hotly through him—as strong as his need to build his fortune on the Exchange. Stronger.

“No new bride has less cause for complaint.” She placed her hand atop his. “Truly, Leo. It was ... a marvel. Sensations I could never have conceived.”

“You may conceive.” Finished with his task, he set the cloth aside and stretched out alongside her. He placed his hand over her belly.

Her lips curved. “That is the purpose of marriage.”

“Trying to make children has its own enticements.”

She wound her arms around his neck and smiled up at him. “In truth, I hope a child comes later. Much later. For I am selfish enough to want you all to myself.”

“Nothing wrong with self-interest.” He pulled her close, his hands cupping the sweet roundness of her arse. The fragrance of her skin enthralled him, sweet and musky with the lingering traces of sex. With their sex. He pressed his face into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, nuzzling. She murmured encouragement. Her limbs made a delectable rustling in the bedclothes.

He wanted her again. The time he had waited to consummate their marriage fell away in gathering desire. Each day he had come to know her better and better, so that, for the first time, when he seated his body within a woman’s, he felt not just the pull of animal need, but a deeper communion. It had been more than simple release. It had been a bestowing of pleasure, a joining.

His cock thickened. He thought perhaps it might be too soon, that she would be sore, but she cupped him close, her leg thrown over his hip.

“Leo.” Her voice was velvet.

“Mm.” He trailed his lips across her neck, and bit lightly on her earlobe. She shivered and burrowed closer. Her hands were bolder now, roaming over his arms, his back, even down to his buttocks. Against her skin, he smiled. She was indeed a tempest, too long confined to a teacup, but now released.

“A request.”

He did not hesitate to answer. “Anything.”

“When you take a mistress, don’t let me find out.”

His head lifted, and he stared down at her. “What?”

She did not look away, and her expression was grave. “Your mistress.”

“I don’t have a mistress.”

Her tension eased minutely. “But you will take one. All men of means have them.”

“Who the hell told you that?”

“My mother. And ... others. One hears things.” Her lashes lowered. “Every married man known to my family keeps women. Lord Haverbrook spends more time with his mistress, Mrs. Delphi, than he does with Lady Haverbrook. The Earl of Macclestone had his bastard son educated at Cambridge.”

Leo only stared at her.

“It’s how things are. The only recourse for wives is acceptance.” She raised her gaze once more, and a storm stirred within. Only a few days earlier, she would have been too guarded to reveal this much of herself, yet now things had changed, they had changed, and she spoke with strength. “When you do take a mistress, keep silent. I don’t wish for ignorance, but of this, it’s preferable to knowledge. Thinking of you, doing this”—she glanced down at their entwined bodies—“with anyone other than me is ... insupportable.”

Leo, who seldom found himself at a loss for words when finessing deals on Exchange Alley, discovered he could not speak. Not for a full minute. At last, however, he gained his voice.

“Mark me, Anne. I have no mistress. Never did, and never will.”

Her eyes rounded. “All men—”

“Not all. Not me.” When she began to protest, he would not allow her to continue. “My body is yours. Only yours. If that makes me a baseborn peasant, that’s what I am.”

“That is not how I think of you.”

He knew this, and it weighted his words. “You are my wife. I am your husband. We shall know the pleasures of no one else’s flesh but each other’s.” The very thought of touching a different woman made him feel sick. And the idea that she might have another man kiss her, let alone make love to her ... he’d never experienced such rage.

“Only you.” She held his gaze. “That is all I want.”

“Good,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers. He wanted their bare torsos pressed together, but knew it could never be. He had to keep his secrets. If ever she discovered the truth, he would lose her, and that he could not allow. “For I find that when it comes to sharing my wife, I’m damned miserly.”

Anne walked in a temple. It was a strange temple, its walls solid stone, and stone loomed overhead. Torchlight flickered, and she saw that the temple was actually underground. Or perhaps set within a hill or mountain. She did not know the where of the place, nor how she came to be there. One moment, she had been lying in Leo’s arms, warm, replete, her body tired and her heart full to bursting. Then she was here, in this place.

The stone floor chilled her bare feet, and she clutched herself close to stay warm. Columns had been carved into the walls. At one end of the temple stood an altar, surrounded by bronze lamps. Cautiously, she approached, then recoiled. A lamb had been sacrificed. Recently. Its body splayed across the altar, steaming, and blood dripped onto the ground.

“You see yourself there.”

Anne spun around. A woman stood a few feet away. She wore a tunic in the Roman style, with golden brooches pinned at her shoulders, and her dark hair was piled atop her head in elaborate curls. She stepped closer, the torchlight revealing her to be a woman of lustrous, aristocratic beauty, her gaze proud and cunning—and urgent.

“To what am I being sacrificed?” asked Anne.

“Him.”

“Leo?”

The Roman woman shook her head. “He is but the instrument of your oblation. The blade plunged into your heart.”

Instinctively, Anne’s hand crept between her breasts, shielding herself. “I do not understand the purpose of this sacrifice.”

“He serves another. The Dark One.” The temple turned to mist and became an elegant chamber with gilt friezes upon the walls. In the middle of the room stood a stylishly dressed man with white hair and irises as pale as diamonds. The guise of the elegant man melted away like liquefying flesh, revealing a humanlike creature of immense height, its skin the color of ash, curving horns atop its head scraping the mural on the ceiling and its cloven hooves tearing the Kidderminster carpet. The eyes remained the same, pale, cold. Ablaze with power and malevolence.

“He has never seen the Dark One’s true face,” continued the Roman. A priestess, she must be. A witch. “And on the day he does, it will be too late. His doom shall be sealed, and with him, the doom of countless others.” The elegant chamber shattered into pieces like broken glass. Anne shielded herself from the shards. When she lifted her arms, she saw the world ablaze. Cities leveled. A never-ending war. Famine and misery. And over all of it, the horned beast watched and applauded.

This scene crumbled away, and Anne and the priestess stood once more within the temple.

“My allies are too few,” said the Roman. “This half-world imprisons me, and only two willing fighters exist in your realm. Not enough. We need others to wage war.” The priestess turned her gaze to Anne. “Powerful warriors.”

Anne held up her hands, palms up. “I have nothing. No power of my own, and am certainly no warrior.”

The Roman’s eyes glittered as she advanced. “Strength lies within you. As for the rest, I shall bring it forth.”

Anne backed up, until she felt slickness under her feet. Blood from the sacrifice. “No.”

“Think you there is a choice?” The priestess looked scornful. “Death is your only other option.”

“I want out of this place. I want to go home.” Anne sounded small and terrified, precisely how she felt.

“We have not the time for this,” snapped the woman. “My hold here weakens.” As she spoke, the edges of the temple blurred and grew hazy. “There is no safety at home. You sense this, and my warning presence. That place is a haven for wickedness.”

“Not Leo.”

The Roman’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “He is most wicked of all. The Devil’s operative who makes the world ready for his master.”

Not the same man who held her, who gave her so much, who believed in her strength even when Anne had been uncertain it existed at all. “I don’t believe you.”

The priestess made a sound of irritation as more of the temple turned to smoke. “Time draws apace.”

She raised her hands and chanted. Anne did not understand the words, though some sounded vaguely familiar. Tempestas, ventus, maleficus. The air grew colder. A wind began to gust. It swirled, its movement marked by eddies of dust. Torches flickered. Faster and fiercer blew the wind, cold and lacerating, until it howled like the gates of Hell being opened.

Anne staggered, fighting to keep standing, yet the wind had the force of a storm, pushing her back.

The wind screamed, and the priestess’s voice raised to a shriek, her words barely audible above the tumult. She curled her hands into fists, and the wind spun around her, gathering, collecting. Building momentum. Her hair came loose from its elaborate arrangement, her tunic billowed, and her eyes blazed as she chanted.

Then she opened her hands and shoved the wind toward Anne.

Certain she would be torn apart by the vicious storm, Anne darted to the side. But too late. The wind slammed into her. She stumbled against the altar and fell to her knees. The pain of impact was nothing compared to the sensation of bitter, cutting wind reaching into her, filling her veins, pushing through her.

She screamed. The torches guttered and went out, sinking the room in darkness.

“Anne?”

She jolted, then felt Leo’s large, warm hand on her thigh. There was a hiss of a tinder being struck, then the flare of lit candle. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when they did, she discovered herself sitting upright in bed. Leo stared up at her, concern furrowing his brow.

“A nightmare?”

Yes, that’s what it had been. Only that. She looked around. No underground temple. No bloody altar. And no Roman priestess speaking of things Anne could not understand. There was no howling wind, nor even a breeze. The bedchamber was warm and still.

“I think so.” She resisted the impulse to check her feet to see if they were sticky with blood.

“You’re bone cold.” He drew her down beside him, surrounding her with his heat. He felt so solid, so real and alive, and Anne relaxed into him. “Better?”

She drew from his warmth, his substance. Her body slowly thawed.

A peculiar ache resounded through her, but she dismissed it as the aftereffects of very thorough, very enthusiastic lovemaking. In time, she might grow used to such physical activity, but she hoped and rather believed she would not. How could she grow accustomed to so much sensation, to a man like Leo?

“Better.” Still, when he began to nibble along her jaw, she added with regret, “I think ... I may be a little sore.”

He chuckled. “Madam, your husband is a brute.”

“Which is one of his more charming qualities.”

Leo gazed over her face. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart. How to keep the nightmares at bay.”

It was strange, she was seldom plagued by bad dreams, and this one had been particularly vivid. Yet Leo’s presence shoved away the last vestiges of the nightmare.

She snuggled closer. “Having you here is enough.”

He pulled away just enough to blow out the candle, then wrapped his arms around her.

“Sleep well, sweetheart.”

“And you,” she said, then added shyly, “my dear.”

His arms tightened, holding her closer. They lay together. Anne felt the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he drifted into sleep, and it lulled her. The darkness felt more comfortable now, everything secure, everything as it should be. Because of him.

Yet as sleep began to claim her, the priestess’s words echoed in her head.

He is most wicked of all. The Devil’s operative who makes the world ready for his master.