Love At First Bite

Chapter One

London, March 1820

"Rufford's done it! The bitch goddess is dead." Admiral Groton, in charge of the government's intelligence effort, waved a sheet of foolscap written in a masculine hand. He stood in front of huge windows that gave onto a rainy Whitehall Lane lined with the offices of the most powerful government in the world.

Relief washed over Major Vernon Davis Ware, Davie to his intimates. It was worth putting off his appointment with Miss Fairfield just to hear those welcome words. An image of Asharti rose to his mind, impossibly beautiful, her eyes gone red and deadly, her breasts brushing his bare chest… He would not think of her. He had banished those dreadful weeks in El Golea when he was in her power from his memory. Now she was dead and all he wanted was a normal life. He was going to offer for Miss Emma Fairfield today and become a government servant in some boring diplomatic post with an intelligent and beautiful wife, if she would have him. And, God willing, he'd sire a family.

"I didn't think Rufford would prevail," Davie breamed. "He's well?"

"Who do you think penned the letter?" The only other occupant of the room was the Lord High Chancellor of England. The skin over the Chancellor's jowls was paper-thin and spotted with age. "Rufford has averted a world cataclysm."

The Admiral cleared his throat and frowned. His face, tanned from years at sea, had deep creases around his mouth. He was no stranger to worry. "The disaster is not yet averted."

"But the vampire woman is dead." It was unbecoming in a Lord High Chancellor to pout, but so it was.

The Admiral sighed. "Remember, Your Lordship, that these vampires have something in their blood… what did you say it was, Ware?"

Davie cleared his throat "I'm not sure, sir. I only know its effect, and the fact that it can be passed through exchanging blood."

"Monsters," the Chancellor muttered under his breath. "They're monsters."

"Are plague victims all monsters?" Davie asked, in spite of the fact that he was questioning the Lord High Chancellor of England. "If the world is saved, Rufford will have saved it."

"The point is they can infect humans and make them vampire, too," the Admiral reminded his superior. "Asharti made an army of them. We're not out of the woods yet."

"But see here, Groton," the Chancellor protested. "You said Rufford and others… like him… they're on a campaign to wipe out her army. If he can kill Asharti, surely they can track down the ones who are newly made. You said they weren't as strong at first, didn't you, Ware?"

"Yes, I did, but they are still stronger than humans. And like a plague, they can spread." Davie managed a lopsided grin. "I wouldn't want to be in North Africa for a while."

The Admiral cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Rufford has requested the assistance of the British government. And he specifically asked for you."

It was Davie's turn to frown. His stomach churned. "What do you mean?" He glanced from one to the other. The Chancellor wouldn't meet his eyes but paced to the window. Rain battered the panes in curtains. All his years sat upon the Chancellor's shoulders.

The Admiral had rather more courage. He fixed Davie with a steely stare. "We're to provide provisions and equipment. But their campaign requires someone who can move about in daylight to provide logistics. He wants someone who already knows what they are."

"No." Every fiber rebelled against returning to North Africa. "I'm going to make an offer of marriage today."

"Our future depends upon the outcome of this struggle, Ware." The Chancellor sounded almost remote. He clasped his hands behind his back as he stared at the street below. "He didn't ask for armies or navies. He didn't ask for Wellington. He asked only for you."

Damn Rufford! "What happens in North Africa does not concern us." He couldn't go back there for so many reasons, Miss Fairfield for one and memories of Asharti for another.

"Really?" The Admiral's acid tone cut through Davie's excuses. "And is that why you demanded our fastest cutter to take Rufford to Casablanca in the first place? Surely you thought the consequence was important to England, since we mustered every resource to send him on what we thought was a suicide mission. He went. He prevailed. And now he asks for our help, and yours."

Davie closed his eyes.

"You've got a box full of medals somewhere even if you don't choose to wear them in the drawing rooms of London." The Chancellor turned back to Davie. "After Waterloo you joined the diplomatic corps, so you've served your country several times. This is our most critical hour, not only as Englishmen, but as humans. Don't fail us now."

"We need to know what's going on down there, Ware!" The Admiral punched his fist into his other palm. "Of course we want battlefield dispatches, but we must keep an eye on Rufford and his kind as well. Do you think I sleep well at night knowing there are monsters living among us? Whatever you may say about them being victims, they're immortal, for Christ's sake, or nearly! They're unnaturally strong. They can disappear into thin air and they drink human blood. Perhaps worst of all, they can control minds. And for all his courage and his service to date, Ian Rufford is one of them. We need intelligence, Ware! What are their vulnerabilities? Who directs them?" He strode forward, his pale gray eyes boring into Davie. "So far, the only way to subdue one of them is with another one. Not something that gives me comfort, Ware."

So, they wanted to help Rufford but spy on him into the bargain. Well, Davie wanted none of it. "I won't go back there." He made his voice as flat as possible. "Rufford doesn't need my help. Good day, gentlemen." He turned on his heel as they exchanged glances.

"We'll be in touch," the Chancellor called after him.

Damn Rufford! Davie thought again as he pushed out into Whitehall Lane. He paused in the pillared portico of the Admiralty, only half-aware that the rain had stopped. He stared at the gaudy squadron of Horse Guards that trooped down the street.

It was that important that Asharti's minions be stopped. Only Rufford and his kind could do it. Did he know for certain Rufford didn't need his help to do the job? The man was true at the center, though Asharti had made him into a monster who drank human blood. If he trusted Davie enough to ask him for help… Davie sucked in the wet March air and slowly let it out. He remembered Rufford's own moment of decision, when he had known he would return to North Africa to face Asharti… Davie had seen the despair in Rufford's eyes, the fear, and the certainty. Davie's dream of stability dissolved into memories of his time in El Golea…

El Golea, 1819

He shouldn't go to her. He knew that, somewhere deep inside himself. The jasmine that dripped from the pergola drenched the night in a flowery musk, but it could not obscure the scent of cinnamon and something else, exotic and sweet, that she exuded. He could barely see her in the darkness of the British compound courtyard. The thick-walled rooms that surrounded it were empty now. She had killed the legation, drained them of blood. They, at least, were at peace.

Only he was left. Why had she spared him? So he could serve her, night after night? He staggered out into the courtyard. No light shone from the surrounding windows, though her creatures were there, drinking and eating in the darkness. He heard their murmuring voices. He had nothing to fear from them. They dared not molest him. That was left to her. His genitals grew heavy with need. Revulsion washed over him. She commanded and his body obeyed.

The stars lit the night along with the sliver of a smirking moon. Ahead, her lithe form was a darker smear of black against the night. Though her back was turned, she knew he was there. Her hair, heavy and dark, cascaded down her back over the diaphanous fabric that barely concealed her form. Her garment might look gray in the darkness, but he would wager it was red.

He touched her shoulder. Her flesh was hot with energy. She turned. Her beauty struck him like a blow, as always. Her dark eyes, lined with kohl, glowed red. All thought of escape vanished. He knelt, knees wide, as she required. He was erect and ready. She bent over him and cupped his jaw.

"I have a task for you, my pretty," she whispered. "Well, two tasks."

He lifted his lips to her nipple and suckled through the sheer fabric.

Davie blinked against the spatter of raindrops as a last shower flapped against the paving stones of the Admiralty court. The shame of that time stayed with him even as the memories drained away. From the distance of London, and three months' time, he knew why he'd been left alive to serve and suffer. He alone had known where Rufford was. Rufford was the only one with a drop of the ancient blood, the only one who had a chance to best her. Davie had betrayed Rufford to her. He swallowed and Whitehall blurred before his eyes. It must be the rain. She could compel… anything—information, sexual service, anything.

Davie's jaw worked. She had sent him with a letter all the way to England, threatening all Rufford loved, knowing that would bring the man back to the North African desert, and into her clutches once again. Davie's ability to act as messenger was all that saved him from Asharti.

What did he not owe Rufford for that betrayal?

And he had sworn service to his country. What greater need could there ever be? No matter that he would be plunging into the middle of a war between what the world called monsters. His need for normalcy after his time with Asharti did not signify.

His shoulders sagged as he knew what he would do. Fear trembled down his spine. He'd thought he'd left behind the cursed sand of the North African desert forever. He was wrong.

And now he must disappoint the woman he loved and blight all chance for happiness.

Emma Fairfield sat in the breakfast room that looked out over the tiny back garden at Fairfield House in Grosvenor Square. The room was cheerful, its pale yellow walls and light Chippendale furniture a contrast with the bleak March rain that beat against the arched windows. Emma was arranging roses in a crystal vase. She managed to grow roses most of the year in the fourth-floor solarium, oranges, too, and peonies brought back from China by her great-uncle. He had been a true adventurer, the black sheep of the family. He was a rebel. Was that why she always liked him best? This bouquet was multicolored, some blossoms well opened, some mere buds. Creamy peach and white mixed with bloodred and pale pink in chaotic abundance.

"I thought we were going to receive a visit from that young man of yours," her brother said as he snapped the London Mail into new folds. They liked to sit here of an afternoon, rather than in the larger, formal rooms at the front of the house. Her brother was some ten years older than she was. He had never married. He never would.

"You might call him by name, Richard," she said calmly, clipping a stem with a small garden shears. "We've known Davie Ware since we were children. And he isn't mine. One doesn't own young men. He isn't even that young."

"Neither are you, Emma." Richard drew his handsome brows together and peered at her over the paper. "You'll be on the shelf if you ain't careful, girl."

"Three seasons isn't the end of the world, Brother."

"Not the point," he muttered. "You're too picky."

"Am I looking old-cattish, my dear?" she asked with a smile.

He put his paper down on his lap. He wore a red and black Oriental dressing gown and pasha slippers just now disposed comfortably on an upholstered ottoman. "You know you are well looking, Emma," he said severely. "That gold hair shines down anything in London. Your eyes are listed as cornflower blue at White's every time they're betting whether you'll accept the latest lovelorn sot. Which you have not. I've made a pony on you these last five times."

"You bet a hundred pounds I would refuse offers?" That took her aback.

"Well, normally I ain't a betting man, but… well, dash it, Emma, you refused a damned duke, didn't you? I can't see how you'd take that last puppy who spouted poetry all the time. Might as well wager if it's a sure thing."

"Richard," she reproved. But she had to suppress the smile that threatened the corners of her mouth. She hoped he wouldn't notice. Then she cleared her throat. "And how are the bets running just now?"

"Fifty-fifty," he grunted. "They were three to one against until you danced four times with Ware at Almack's."

"And where is your money?"

"I haven't laid down yet," he said speculatively, "though I may. You toy with them. You're always so still and quiet, you fool people. But I know. You like to play."

"The whole thing is so boring!" She sighed. "I admit it was mischievous of me to act interested in them. But they enjoyed the dance."

"These are men's hearts you're playing with, Emma." Richard brought his blond brows together. He had the family's straight nose. His eyes were a grayer version of hers and he had the same full lips, though just now they were pressed together in a disapproving line.

"Their hearts were not engaged, Brother, except with the prospect of my income."

He grunted again. "Thank God for your fortune or you might have no offers at all. You've a blunt way about you, Emma; there are no two ways about it. Some say an acid tongue." He snapped his paper shut. "I like Ware. Maybe I should warn him off. Besides, I'm tired of watching them struggle to find the words when they ask my permission. And it all comes to nothing in any case."

"I wonder they ask you before they are sure of me."

"They are sure of you. And whose fault is that?" He shrugged, opened a fresh page of his paper, and hunched behind it. "I'll put down a pony this week."

"I wouldn't bet against this one, Brother." She placed a rose in the cut-glass vase.

His brows appeared over the top of his paper, then his eyes. He tossed it to the side and rose from his chair. "You mean… ?"

This time, she could not suppress the smile. Indeed, it was almost a grin. "He's going to offer, Richard. Lord knows I can feel it coming at this point. And I'm going to accept. So please be nicer to him than you were to the poet."

"Emma, Emma!" He descended on her and took her by her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. A crease appeared between his brows. "Don't let my badgering make you take him if you don't love him, Emma."

She raised her brows, her eyes unaccountably filling. She widened her smile to compensate. "But I do, Richard. That's the surprise. I didn't mean for it to happen. He picked me up from a fall off my pony and chased me out of his lily pond when I was a child. But when he returned from North Africa… Well, somewhere over the years he'd become a man and an interesting one at that. He's been everywhere. He has ideas." She shrugged. "He's only a soldier, but he has prospects in the diplomatic corps—"

"Tosh, you've enough money for him and a dozen others. Don't bother about that."

"Only if you won't. Don't make him feel paltry," she warned.

"Wares have been in Warwickshire since the Conquest. I have no complaints about his birth. I could wish he was not a second son. But Rockhampton says he'll try to get Ware onto his staff. He's got a bright future." He frowned. "Sounds like a dashed lot of work to me, but Ware seems to like all this rushing about in the diplomatic line."

"You've been doing research?" How dear of him.

"Well," he harrumphed. "You are m'sister." He tried to look severe. "He's like to haul his wife off to barbaric places. I won't dress it up for you. I know you fancy yourself a rebel, Emma, but are you ready for barbarians who don't even eat at a civilized hour?"

"I'll think of it as an adventure, Richard; truly I will." She kept her mouth prim.

"So you've decided." He nodded. "I thought so—saw how you looked at him."

"And that's the real reason you haven't bet against the match at White's," she laughed.

"Well, I can't say I like throwing money away."

"Provoking man! You teased me to get inside information out of me."

He drew her to him and hugged her. "You're more important to me than any bet at White's, no matter what I put about. I'll welcome your Davie, Emma."

She hugged him back. He was a most excellent brother. "I only hope we care for each other as much as you and Damien."

He put her from him and smiled affectionately. "That would be a lot to ask." Her brother's "friend" of many years was far more than that. "It will fall to you to get the heir. I'm sorry for that burden, Emma."

She sat again and picked up a rose. It was perfect, its petals bloodred velvet, half-opened, a promise of full-blown glory. It should go at the center of the arrangement. "You two are a marvelous example of constancy. The least I can do is provide the heir."

"More tea, miss?" She jerked around to see their old butler, Jenkins, peering through the door. The rose escaped her grasp. She grabbed at it. Its thorns pricked deep.

"Ouch!" she exclaimed. The rose fell to the floor. She grabbed her fingers and squeezed until blood welled. She sucked at the drops. It tasted of copper.

Her brother drew his handkerchief from his pocket. "Take this. You'll spoil your dress."

"I'll spoil your handkerchief." But she took it and wound it around her fingers. Blood stained it in a bright flower. Jenkins looked apologetic. "Jenkins, tea would be nice. And Major Ware said he would be late. Show him back immediately when he arrives."

"Ware," Richard said, pumping Major Ware's hand. "Good to see you."

Emma rose. The smile that burbled up from her heart at the sight of him faltered. He was pale, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He was a handsome specimen, a fact she had not recognized until she saw him again two months ago. How had she never noticed how clear and intelligent his blue eyes were? Sandy blond hair waved back from a broad forehead. His nose was straight and a little long, but that just spoke of character, which was a good thing, because his chin did not exactly shout it. What a dear cleft chin he had! She had never noticed how strong the column of his neck was or the set of his broad shoulders until he returned. Certainly she had never noticed how his thighs bunched with muscle under his trousers. His clothes were conservative but well cut. The military men all went to Weston for their coats. No padded shoulders or intricate neck cloths so high they pushed at Davie's ears. She'd wager he was beforehand with the world. Not a wastrel, her Davie.

But now he was clearly in distress. He nodded to her brother. "Fairfield." And he bowed over her hand. His was clammy as he held her fingers to his lips. Still, the shock of his touch did what it always did to her. She felt more alive, throbbing with awareness of him. "Miss Fairfield." She smiled inside to think that he was that nervous about offering for her.

"Well, well, I must go to… my steward. Not expecting you. Apologies and all…" Richard snapped the door shut behind him.

Her brother's blatant behavior seemed to make Major Ware even more nervous. And… was that regret in his eyes? How… odd. "Won't you sit down?" She gestured to a chair upholstered in cheerful green stripes that defied the gray day.

Far from sitting, he paced the room like a caged beast, saying nothing, only occasionally clearing his throat. Was he so unsure of her answer? She sat calmly and waited for her stillness to reel in his nervous energy.

He turned and came to stand over her. "Miss Fairfield…" he began after a moment.

She looked up and smiled. "Surely we have known each other long enough that you can call me Emma."

"Yes, well…" He ran a finger around the inside of his cravat. Then he seemed to sag. "Emma." Her name sounded like defeat when he said it like that. Was that right for one about to propose marriage? He eschewed the comfortable seat and sat on a Chippendale chair that looked too fragile for his bulk. "I know there are certain… expectations surrounding our relationship…" He cleared his throat, apparently uncertain how to go on.

"You mean the betting at White's?"

"They're not betting at White's!" He looked stricken.

She nodded in mock sincerity. "Richard says they are."

He pressed his lips together grimly. "I should like to be free to satisfy their expectations," he murmured, almost too low for her to hear. "But… I will be going away tomorrow."

Emma felt as though she had been slapped. "Where?" she blurted.

His eyes were pained. "I expect I'll start in Casablanca. After that, I don't know."

"How… long will you be gone?" she managed after a moment.

"I don't know that, either." He looked at his hands. He took a breath as though he had to fight for it. "It isn't my choice…" He trailed off.

"Well, I'll be anxious for your return," she said carefully, trying to sense the truth of his feelings about this turn of events. Was he relieved that he was escaping the "expectations"? He didn't look relieved.

He shook his head convulsively. "Everything will be changed by then. A woman like you gets offers of marriage every week."

"I've managed to resist temptation so far." She couldn't believe she was telling him so clearly how she felt about him, not knowing if he returned the sentiment.

"It could be years…" he choked, turning.

Years? He was trying to put her off! Did he long to get away from her? Had she mistaken echoes of warmth for a childhood friend for something more? She had to know. "Surely a wife could accompany you, help you in your mission."

He turned a gaze on her filled with such longing and such… loss it almost staggered her. He swallowed. Then his countenance closed. "Too dangerous in Africa. And if… the worst… happened… a widow without being properly a bride… worse, alone in a strange land…"

He thought he would die there? My God!

"An unfair proposition all the way around," he croaked. "No, there are no obligations between us. You must look to your own happiness." He took a tentative step in her direction and another, until he loomed over her with all of his six-plus feet. Slowly he bent to her hand and lifted it gently with his own. The feel of his flesh against hers sent a thrill coursing through her. His hand was strong, the nails clean half-moons. He smelled like soap and lavender water. She was most aware of the muscle in his shoulders. She could hardly concentrate with the sensation of skin to skin assaulting her. "I shall always treasure our moments together."

That sounded so final! "I await your return, then…" She tried to make her voice sound both stubborn and cheerful.

"No." He pressed his lips to her fingers. The touch made her feel faint with impending loss. "Move on with your life, Emma. I can promise you nothing."

That was it then…

He snapped upright and let go her hand. All color drained from his face. His eyes shone. "Your servant, Miss Fairfield." He nodded curtly, then spun on his heel and shut the breakfast room door behind him.

Emma was left staring at the closed door. Emotions careened and collided in her breast. Surely… surely his expression, if not his words, said he cared for her, that it was only duty that called him away… Was she wrong about that?

The door creaked open and her brother let himself into the room. "Emma? I ran smack into Ware. He looked like he'd seen a relative executed. You didn't refuse him, did you, girl?"

"I didn't get a chance," she said, trying to make her voice light.

"He didn't offer?" Her brother was incredulous.

"It seems he's off to Africa tomorrow." She took up a piece of needlework at random. Her hands were shaking. "The expectations at White's will go unsatisfied." Her voice cracked on the last sentence. She despised herself for her lack of control.

"Oh, Emma!" Richard put a hand on her shoulder. "What a time to be mistaken in a suitor, just when you finally found one you liked." He sighed. "There will be others."

"Putting up with who I am because of my fortune, no doubt," she said bitterly. "I thought Davie… well, that he liked me as I was. If I can't have that, I'd rather be a spinster. Not a fate worse than death." But spinsterhood rankled. Marriage, too, with anyone but Davie, would gall her. What kind of diplomatic mission brought a certainty of death? Or had he just made that up to put her off? She watched her fingers pull small, even stitches through her needlework as though they belonged to someone else. Everything had changed.

Somewhere inside she felt a storm building, one that might sweep away her sanity.

Chapter Two

The sun sank behind the Kasbah tents in Casablanca. Davie watched the light die from the third-story window of the room he had taken. Fear thumped in his chest. The night belonged to them. How would he find Rufford in this teeming city?

He lit a small oil lamp against the coming twilight. The Admiral had given Davie his fastest cutter. Supplies were diverted from a shipment to Gibraltar and sent to Casablanca. Whitehall was pulling out all the stops to give Rufford anything he needed for the war he was waging against the forces of darkness.

Darkness to darkness, monster over monster. Did it matter who won? Davie asked that question and answered himself a dozen times a day.

Yes. The world probably depended on Rufford's brand of darkness prevailing.

Davie had a hard time caring for the world just now. It was eleven days, ummmm, four hours, and twenty minutes since he had seen Emma Fairfield's face, incredulous, then hurt. That look had stayed with him through choppy seas and the smell of tar and salt water. She'd done everything but beg him to take her with him. A woman like Emma Fairfield did not beg. The need to be with her was a physical pain in his belly.

He went to the room's lone window, just an opening in the thick mud brick walls. He looked out across the city. Lights began to flicker as the Kasbah turned into a night market. The braying of donkeys and camels, the smell of spice and fruit and overripe meat, wafted up from streets that teemed with sellers and shoppers and no doubt something far more deadly. He could not have brought her into this chaos and danger.

"You came."

Davie whirled to see Ian Rufford standing in the shadows of the bare room, containing only a narrow bed and a dresser. He sucked in a breath. He thought he saw the gleam of red in Rufford's eyes. But then the man—if that was what you could call him these days—stepped out of the shadows and his eyes were as blue as Davie remembered them. Rufford had powerful shoulders and curling light brown hair worn too long and tied back in a black ribbon. The air was electric with the energy emanating from him. Davie recognized the telltale scent of cinnamon and something else, sweeter, underneath. They all had a variant of that scent and put out some version of that vibrating energy. The brute was handsome. So handsome he had enticed Elizabeth Rochewell into marrying him, even though she knew what he was. Davie and Emma Fairfield had stood up at their wedding. Davie still couldn't believe that Rufford had brought his new wife into the danger of North Africa. "How did you get in?"

Rufford shrugged. "Thank you for coming."

It was Davie's turn to shrug. "Rally round and all that." But he had been thinking about Rufford's wife. "I wonder that you didn't get your wife to see to your supply lines. She was a hand at organizing expeditions as I recall."

"My wife is doing just that for Khalenberg and Beatrix Lisse in Tripoli," he said. "The… extermination effort proceeds on several fronts. Urbano has Algiers."

Beatrix Lisse! Of course! The famous courtesan always wore perfume smelling vaguely like cinnamon. He should have guessed it wasn't perfume at all. "Why not send me to Tripoli and keep your wife by your side?" he couldn't help asking. Too late he realized that Rufford's wife might have left him, and the man just didn't want to admit that.

Rufford smiled grimly. "She can handle Khalenberg. You could not."

Davie was stung into a retort. "A slip of a girl?"

"She's our kind now," Rufford said. "And her blood is strong."

That stopped Davie. Elizabeth Rufford had been made vampire? A fate worse than death. Rufford once thought so, too. His saving grace was that he hadn't wanted to become a monster, had fought against it, hated it. Davie examined Rufford's face. The old pain and sorrow he had once seen there were gone. Rufford looked tired but… comfortable with himself, confident. Had he stopped hating that he was a monster? So much so that he made his wife into a monster, too?

"She was dying." It was as though he read Davie's thoughts. "My blood could save her. What would you have me do?"

Death is better than becoming a monster. That was what came of letting a woman come with you into dangerous climes. Thank God he had not been weak enough to ask Emma to marry him. Davie's heart clenched. He would probably never hold Emma Fairfield in his arms, now.

But he was not here to judge Rufford, or to mourn for what might have been with Emma. He was here to do his duty and help eradicate the remnants of Asharti's army, else humans would be kept as cattle and raised for their blood. He pushed the image of Emma's smile from his mind. "How goes the battle?"

Rufford didn't answer. His mouth set itself into a line and his jaw worked. "We need a safe house to heal during the daylight hours. We'll have to change the location frequently. Food, fresh clothing—African mostly, since we must pry them out of the local population."

Davie nodded. "Weapons? I brought an arsenal of guns."

Rufford shook his head. "Useless. Perhaps some sabers or cutlasses."

"Done. Bandages?"

Rufford raised his intense blue eyes. "No." He hesitated. "But we're going to need—"

Davie didn't want to hear the word. "I've been thinking about that," he interrupted. "Would it raise suspicions if I solicited donations? I could pay handsomely."

Rufford shook his head. "The city is frightened enough as it is. Bring five or six healthy specimens to the safe house each evening before we go out. We'll do the rest, and leave them with pleasant memories of a night of wine or love and money in their pocket they'll think they won at dice. We'll take a bit from each so no one is the worse for wear."

So. He was to be a procurer of blood. His face must have shown his revulsion.

"Look, Ware," Rufford said, his voice rough. "I'm not sure what you know of us, based on your time with her. Asharti," he almost choked on the name even still, "is not a good example of our kind. But you need to know our Rules."

Davie sucked in a breath and nodded. Rufford had suffered at her hands as well.

Rufford held himself still. The light of the lamp was the only flickering defense against the darkness that had grown in the room. Rufford stood outside its circle of illumination. His face was dimly visible in the shadows. "We have a parasite in our blood. We call it the Companion. It gives us strength. We can compel weaker minds as well as suggest memories. We can translocate—draw the power of our Companion until we pop out of space and time and reappear at a place of our choice within a range of a few miles. We are stronger than humans. The Companion rebuilds its host rather than relocating, so we heal wounds and life is extended… indefinitely." He made his tone matter-of-fact.

Immortal? The concept was too big to comprehend. Yet Davie knew from his terrible time with Asharti how true some of those impossible facts were. He had firsthand experience with compulsion. A woman of eight stone had brute strength that far surpassed his own. And he had seen Rufford heal a broken neck after trying to kill himself.

"We aren't harmed by garlic or wolfsbane or symbols of any religion. We don't sleep in the earth of our homeland. We have never been dead and we don't turn into wolves or bats. Those are superstitious myths."

"How can you prevail against your… kind if they are essentially immortal?"

"Decapitation. The head must be separated entirely from the body or it will heal."

Ugly. But at least there was some way to kill them. That's why Rufford wanted swords.

"You'll leave that to us, of course," Rufford continued. "Fedeyah and I—"

"Fedeyah! Asharti's second in command?"

Rufford nodded. "We are responsible for clearing the land west of the Atlas Mountains."

Davie's jaw dropped in horror and surprise. "Two of you? For all that territory? And one her servant? I would never trust him!"

"I do," Rufford said quietly. "With my life. Every night." He brushed aside Davie's outrage and glanced to the window. Outside it had grown full dark. "I must get to it. They are converging on Casablanca, which means this place will get more dangerous before it gets safer. That brings us to you." He turned back to Davie. "Don't go out at night. Stay at the safe house, no matter what you hear, no matter how badly you want to leave. Never touch us when we are wounded. Examine yourself for wounds and bandage them carefully before you get anywhere near us. A drop of our blood in the tiniest scratch or accidentally swallowed will infect you. You either die a horrible death or get immunity to the parasite from ingesting large quantities of vampire blood and become a vampire yourself. Not what you want, I'm sure."

The very concept made Davie's mouth dry.

"Think of your job as setting up a field hospital in a dangerous area." Rufford stepped back into the shadows. A more intense blackness seemed to whirl around him. "Begin tomorrow with finding a safe house. Leave the location here. Cover your tracks. They're everywhere."

And he was gone. Davie wondered where he and Fedeyah would find shelter tomorrow during the daylight. And he wondered just what he had gotten himself into. He had never felt so weak, so mortal. He turned to the window. Somewhere in the darkness Rufford and Fedeyah would do battle tonight with the remnants of Asharti's army converging on the city. He couldn't see them. But they were there. He stepped away from the window. Maybe they could see him.

Emma Fairfield stood next to the champagne fountain at Bedford House. She was very still. Couples danced in the precise dips and graceful patterns of a country dance. Ladies sipped punch and examined their dance cards. Dowagers in turbans and feathers rapped the knuckles of their equally ancient cicisbei. She could see tables of whist and pique through the card room door. It seemed unreal, it was so pointless. Richard danced courtly attendance on a woman he cared nothing for. He hated this evening as much as Emma did but had nothing better to do since Damien was gone up to Northumberland. Richard would have gone with him at any other time. They could be much freer there. In fact, Richard stayed in London only to give her countenance and allow her to have season after season where she refused all offers of marriage. She could not be so selfish as to let that go on forever. He glanced over to her. She made no sign. It seemed too much effort. Richard leaned in and spoke to a man on his left. The man—young Thurston, wasn't it?—glanced in her direction and then started across the room.

Emma breathed in and out carefully. It was only at her brother's instigation that she was here tonight. Actually, "instigation" wasn't the word. "Prodding." "Nagging." In the end it was easier to come. She need only stand and watch after all. But Richard obviously had other ideas.

"Miss Fairfield." Thurston bowed crisply before her. He wore the uniform of the Seventh Hussars. It matched his blue eyes. Too much gold braid for her taste. "May I have this dance?"

She looked at him. She should say something. What did one say? "No, thank you."

His expression was startled. "Uh… Perhaps some punch?"

She shook her head. "No," she whispered.

"Oh." His dismay would once have been comical. But she didn't respond to absurdity anymore. She hadn't smiled for ten days. He glanced back to her brother, who made threatening expressions with his eyebrows. Thurston turned back and chewed his lip.

She looked at him calmly, not letting him see the knot of wormy despair that lurked inside her. No one must see that.

"Well then, I'll just be…" He took two steps back, turned, and retreated in disarray. She saw Richard sigh. She didn't move, just stood there, her hands folded quietly in front of her. The music seemed a desecration to her mood. She should never have given in to Richard.

Several young women hurried across to her as the dance finished, abandoning their partners with unseemly haste. "There you are Miss Fairfax," Chlorinda Belchersand called. Emma had known Chlorinda almost as long as she had known Davie.

That thought stabbed through her calm and made her gasp against the pain. Davie! Oh dear! She thought she had cried all the tears she had when she discovered he had wound up all his affairs and written out a will. That was when she was sure he wasn't coming back to her, ever. But tears closed her throat now against the thump of her heart. She fumbled at her reticule for a handkerchief as Chlorinda and Jane Campton arrived in a flutter.

"Where have you been hiding for ten whole days?" Miss Campton asked, breathless. "Did you have the influenza? You look very pale."

Emma dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes. It was easier to say nothing than to lie.

"Isn't influenza just horrible?" Miss Belchersand agreed, apparently willing to forgo Emma's actual participation in the conversation. "It makes your eyes water for days."

"I heard the posies were piled up in the foyer and you wouldn't see any of the young men who brought them." This from Miss Campton in a confidential whisper.

"I heard that you would have had several proposals of marriage if you were in any condition to receive them," Chlorinda revealed, not to be outdone.

"Well, she can receive them now that she's out and about again."

Emma couldn't think of anything more likely to send her to a madhouse than a proposal of marriage, or at least any proposal of marriage but one. She stared around the room as sets formed for the next dance. She wouldn't listen to their chatter.

"No one knows who to bet on next now that Ware is gone off," Chlorinda confided.

"Miss Fairfield would never have taken a second son without a fortune," Miss Campton sniffed, "and one tied to the diplomatic corps into the bargain. All those postings to vile places!"

"Well, she needn't have gone with him. An absent husband is a great convenience, and one dependent upon your money is even better. One would always have the whip hand, wouldn't one?" Chlorinda Belchersand's tone was arch.

Emma turned her eyes slowly toward the two women now talking to each other as though she weren't there. How had she never noticed how small and spiteful their eyes were?

"Well, who do you think it will be?" Miss Campton asked Miss Belchersand.

"I'm not going to accept an offer from any of these silly creatures," Emma interrupted. It was more than she had said at one time in ten days.

"You were always such a rebel, Emma." Chlorinda tittered. "What will you do? You can't live with that brother of yours forever."

"I may just set up on my own." She raised her chin.

"That isn't done! Everyone will talk about you!" Miss Campton said, horrified.

"Everyone seems to be talking about me now," Emma pointed out. "Men bet on the outcome of the affairs of my heart at White's. So why wouldn't I rebel?"

"Because society punishes rebels," Chlorinda said, now sounding truly worried. "You've refused all offers until you're nearly on the shelf. That's bad enough. But there are limits. If you set up for yourself, you won't be received. If you retreat to the country, you'll end up walking on the moors or whatever and dressing unfashionably and dying alone with only an aged housekeeper to note your passing."

"You have been reading too many novels," Emma said in a damping tone.

"You'll never know the touch of a man," Jane Campton said thoughtfully. How unexpected! A physical sense of yearning swept through Emma. That was a hard truth to bear.

Suddenly she wanted to shriek at these silly girls, at Thurston, at the dowagers and the cicisbei and the whist players. She wanted to shriek that they had no meaning in their lives, no love, and that pretending it didn't matter didn't fool anyone. Instead, she pushed past the two young women and bore down upon Richard. He turned in surprise.

"I have the headache and I'm calling for the carriage, and you may take me home or not as you please," she said, through clenched jaws. If she clenched her jaws she might not scream.

Richard raised his brows. "I'll call the carriage." He turned to the Countess Lieven, with whom he had been conversing. "Your servant, my lady. Duty calls."

Emma turned and stalked out of the hall without looking back. Inside she was seething. Davie had done this to her. She was certain he loved her. It had been written in his expression of loss that afternoon at Fairfield House. He had been going to offer for her, until he felt some wretched sense of duty and protectiveness that sent him off to Casablanca without her.

The whole town had become intolerable and she didn't know whether to cry or shout defiance at the unfairness of it all. Where was all her vaunted calm? Lost. And she didn't know how to get it back.

Chapter Three

It was almost dawn. Davie waited in the darkness of the tiny whitewashed house. The windows were covered over with black cloth. Rufford and Fedeyah would be here soon.

He should leave. The weapons cache must be moved and the food supply replenished. Then he would bring several young men and women for Rufford and Fedeyah when they woke. They drained a little blood from each, as the donors drowsed and smiled, and stored it in two leather sacks. They needed it most when they arrived, wounded, just after dawn. Davie had never seen them return from a night of fighting. But he had seen the results of the battle. The city was buzzing with fear. Twelve decapitated bodies had been found in an alley today. Twelve! The number of Asharti's followers in the city had been growing. And they were not as discreet as Rufford and Fedeyah. Human bodies drained of blood were being noticed, even in a city where the poor died on the streets every day. Citizens were leaving if they had the means to do so. Davie dreaded a panic that would send the population of the African metropolis streaming into the desert and certain death by exposure or setting sail for Gibraltar in unsafe craft that would leave them at the mercy of the weather and the sea.

With the turn of days, he had been lingering longer as dawn approached, tempted to stay. Curiosity killed the cat. Possibly quite literally in this case. Who knew what feral monsters Rufford and Fedeyah became after a night of killing? They never let him into the room where they slept. By the time he returned in the late afternoon, they were sitting in the chosen house, with the remains of the food he had brought scattered over a table, making plans for the night. This campaign was taking a terrible toll on Rufford. The man's grim determination had been slowly turning into a heartsickness that was palpable. And Fedeyah? Davie had never trusted the Arab and couldn't read his face. Fedeyah followed Rufford's orders, just as Davie did, though the Englishman was something like a thousand years younger than the Arab.

Davie felt he was doing too little, that he was protected from whatever put such a charge on their souls. At the very least he could witness that cost. So he sat, quiet, as the gap around the cloth that covered the window lightened. He laid a sharp cutlass across his knees, lit a fresh candle, and waited.

The two whirlpools of blackness did not surprise him. He had seen vampires translocating many times. But he was shocked at the figures that materialized out of the darkness onto the terra-cotta tiled floor. They were covered in wounds that showed bone and guts and shouted death. He jumped to his feet. Rufford took a single step forward. His soft leather boots gushed with blood. He was naked except for a cloth around his loins and those boots. His burnoose had apparently been ripped from his body. Davie had been in the Peninsular War. He had seen wounds and death aplenty, but nothing quite so vicious as Rufford's. It looked like an animal had raked him with six-inch claws. Shoulder gaped over ligament; chest showed bone; belly revealed intestine; thigh showed layers of muscle.

Rufford toppled to the floor.

Davie rushed forward. "Rufford!" Fedeyah sank to his knees. He, too, was wounded, but not like Rufford.

"Get from us," Fedeyah gasped in his heavily accented English. "The blood!"

Davie stopped, swallowing hard. Fedeyah's wounds were already beginning to close. Rufford didn't seem to be making the same progress. The scoring Davie could see on his back still bled. The dirt floor was dark with blood. "Can he die?" Davie croaked.

"No," Fedeyah panted. "But drinking blood can give him strength and spare him pain."

"Right, right." Davie scanned the room. "Blood." There it was, on the crude wooden table. He lunged for the leather water sacks. When he turned back, Fedeyah lay on the floor in semiconsciousness. His wounds were visibly healing now.

Davie took a breath. Very well. It was up to him. He held up his hands to the light of the candle, front and back, checking for cuts or scrapes. Nothing. He could do this. He knelt beside Rufford. The man's pale English flesh was an anomaly in this land of sun and sand. Davie sucked in a breath and turned Rufford over by the shoulders. Davie's hands were slick with blood. He heaved the nearly naked man into his lap, not looking at his belly or the wounds in his neck and chest. Holding up his head, Davie got the nipple of the water sack between Rufford's lips and squeezed. Thick, half-coagulated blood oozed from the corners of Rufford's mouth before he gasped and choked and swallowed. But then, barely conscious as he was, he sucked greedily.

God in heaven, what am I doing? Davie might burn in hell, but he wouldn't let a man suffer. When Rufford had taken what there was, Davie laid him down and took the other sack to Fedeyah. Davie roused the Arab, who raised himself on one elbow and took the water sack. Fedeyah upended it over his mouth and squeezed. Blood arced into his mouth. His wild black hair was caked with dirt and dried blood. As Davie watched, a scalp wound closed and sealed itself. Fedeyah leaned against a wooden chest, breathing hard.

Davie turned to Rufford. The belly wound was healed enough so that no intestines were visible now. The gleam of bone had gone from his chest. As Davie watched, Rufford opened his eyes. They radiated pain. His gaze darted about the room until it fell on Davie. "You shouldn't be here," Rufford croaked.

Davie leaned down and hoisted him up by one arm, though Rufford protested weakly. He got his shoulder under Rufford's arm and pulled him onto one of the beds, a simple wooden frame with rope netting supporting a straw mattress. Fedeyah crawled onto the other one. "You were in no shape to get to the blood," Davie panted.

"Doesn't matter," Rufford muttered. A cut on his temple sealed itself and faded into a pink line of new skin. "I'd heal sooner or later."

"If it weakens you for tonight, it matters. Looks like last night was a near thing."

"More all the time." Rufford's voice was bleak. "They make their own reinforcements."

Davie glanced to Fedeyah, who seemed to be dropping off to sleep. "You took the brunt of it," he said to Rufford.

"I have an Old One's blood. I am the stronger. It's up to me to protect him."

"Seems they know that. They're going for you."

Rufford nodded. "Word is out. We no longer have to look for them. They find us."

This whole campaign seemed hopeless to Davie. "Can just two of you turn the tide?"

"Beatrix sent word to all the cities and even to Mirso Monastery itself. They will come. Some to Tripoli, Algiers, and here. We must hold out until they get here."

"Then I hope they arrive soon."

"I'm more worried about Tripoli."

Ahhh. He was worried about his wife. Davie couldn't imagine having the woman you loved in a situation like this. He looked away, remembering Emma. He saw her in the breakfast room in the Grosvenor Square house. The room was light with gentle English sun. Her skin was clean and pink. He would never see her again.

"Miss Fairfield?"

Davie stared at him. The man could read minds!

"No," Rufford said, a small smile touching one corner of his mouth. "But your thoughts aren't hard to guess. I'm sorry I made you leave someone you love behind."

"How did you know it was Miss Fairfield?"

"It was written all over you two the day I married Beth. Did you tell her?"

Davie shook his head. "I was on my way to propose when Whitehall called."

"You didn't go through with it?"

Davie shook his head. "Couldn't make her feel… obligated, under the circumstances."

"Probably wise. Spunky, that girl. Stood up for Beth when no one else would."

Davie smiled. No one could help liking Emma. He looked away, lest Rufford see his weakness. "She was my best hope for a… normal life. After… you know. After… her."

"I like Englishmen," she said. They were in the chambers of the former ambassador in the English compound in El Golea. She lay across the huge bed of English walnut carved and inlaid with rococo magnificence, her body draped with strips of almost transparent cloth. A spill of heavy black hair splayed out over the rich cut-velvet spread. Her nails and lips were painted gold. Her nipples were dusted with it. Kohl lined her eyes. She wore a wide necklace of interlaced gold links to which had been attached hundreds of tiny gold disks, each set with a tinier jewel. Her wrist had a bracelet of the same. They tinkled when she moved.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he had never been more frightened of anyone. He knelt on the cool tile beside the bed, head bowed. He was naked, as always, knees wide, his most private parts vulnerable to her. She did not allow him even a scrap of cloth to cover his loins. He was full, if not fully erect. Two round marks punctured his flesh over the big arteries that ran down into each thigh from his groin. That was one of her favorite places to feed. She had him shaved and bathed daily and whipped almost as often with wide leather straps. She liked fresh welts but didn't want them bloody. If he was too injured, he would lose the strength to service her. He had become dulled to the horror of compulsion. Revulsion at her habits was a luxury not allowed a slave. The time when he had been Major Vernon Davis Ware, attaché to Lord Wembertin, was a distant dream.

"Come, Englishman," she whispered, beckoning with one long golden nail. Her eyes went red. He felt the familiar tightening in his balls, the throbbing in his cock that signaled a full erection. She could keep him hard all night, and she would. He crawled up onto the bed and lay beside her, his cock stiff now. He thumbed her nipple because that was what she wanted. She commanded, though she didn't speak. He obeyed. He kissed the top of her breast. She ran those long-nailed hands through his hair, over the welts on his back and buttocks. Then she lifted his chin with one finger even as she grasped his cock with the other. His throat was bared to her. He saw the glint of her canines in the darkness, felt the sharp pain. She sucked only lightly, a prelude to excite her as she writhed against him and pulled at his cock. The sensation cycled up to excruciating, but he wouldn't come. She hardly ever let him ejaculate. She liked to keep him raw and needing. With a jerk she pulled her teeth from his neck and lay back on the pillows. She wanted him to lick her.

She spread her legs and he knelt between them. She tilted her hips up. He parted her fur with his tongue and tasted her musk as he slid his tongue up and down to her point of pleasure, teasing her toward her release. As her excitement grew, she held his head to her pelvis and ground against him, moaning. Then her hips began to jerk and he sucked on her small nub, harder and harder, drawing out the sensation for her. When at last she could stand no more, she cried out and fell back. Her eyes faded from red to jet-black.

"I like you, Englishman," she said. She could speak many languages and did, seeming to choose them at random. He understood her when she spoke French or Arabic, Latin or Greek, but lost her when she started speaking the guttural one that sounded a little like German or Russian but wasn't. "But I find you have been keeping secrets from me."

Fear cycled up through Davie. What secrets could an attaché to an incompetent ambassador in a godforsaken place like El Golea have that she could want? He crawled to her side again. Should he beg forgiveness? Should he speak at all?

She arched. He had been well trained. He bent to suckle her nipple. The gold dust tasted bitter and metallic in his mouth. "I am told, slave, that an Englishman crawled in off the desert here some months ago. He had the marks on his body." She fingered the twin wounds at the inside of Davie's elbow. "Do you remember this man, slave?"

"Yes, Goddess," he said, around her nipple, which had tightened. She would be ready for his cock soon. She meant Rufford. He knew now how Rufford got those wounds. He understood the pain that drenched the man's eyes, why he said he had turned into his own worst nightmare.

"Where is he now, slave?" she whispered. Poor sod. Hadn't Rufford suffered enough?

"He's gone." There. He could give her that. That couldn't hurt Rufford.

Compulsion slammed into him. His cock grew painfully hard. "I know that!" she barked. "Where?"

Davie let out a moan. His balls were swollen almost to bursting. A molten core of fire was trying to get out through his cock and couldn't. "England." She couldn't reach Rufford there. How he longed to be in England with Rujford! He bent to kiss her. That was what she wanted. Her lips were soft, but he knew they covered fangs that would bite and suck yet tonight. She thrust her tongue into his mouth and lifted her hips again. He tore himself away and lay between her thighs, his cock aching as it trembled at her entry.

"Where in England?" she hissed.

He held up her hips and thrust inside her, hard, ramming his cock home. It was excruciating for him. She wanted it harder yet. She wasn't pleased. He slid in and out. Where? She wanted to know where. He couldn't tell her. He'd pretend he didn't know, even to himself, and then he wouldn't tell her. His cock screamed for release.

"Where?" Her eyes were full red now.

Stanbridge. Rufford said he was going home to Stanbridge. He couldn't help the thought. No! He should never have remembered it. He pumped inside her. She bucked in counterpoint. He bit his lip until it bled, trying not to say the word. He leaned down into her. She licked the blood from his lip. That brought out her canines. They pierced his carotid on the other side. She clung to him and sucked as he rammed his cock home. He felt her womb contract around him with her orgasm. His own cock was beyond pleasure and well into pain.

At last she lay back on the bed, panting, and allowed him to withdraw. His cock was raw, still throbbing with sensation.

"I was distracted," she said conversationally. "Now, where were we?"

Her eyes went from burgundy into carmine.

He panted against the word that thundered in his brain, pressing to be uttered. He twisted away, but she grabbed him by the nape of the neck and with incredible strength brought him round to face her. "I know you know," she whispered, almost inside his brain.

"Stanbridge!" he cried, and collapsed beside her. Betrayer! His eyes filled.

"That's better," Asharti soothed, stroking his head. "I'm surprised you had so much resistance left in you. You'll leave tomorrow for England, with a letter."

He raised his head. Leave? He shut down the hope that might just show in his eyes. Leave her? His betrayal had earned him freedom. Guilt washed over him.

"But first, tonight, you must be punished for your resistance."

Davie blinked as the tiny house and the smell of blood flickered back into his consciousness. He pulled his mind away from El Golea before he could relive that punishment. But Asharti could never be banished for long. He was doomed to relive that time again and again, maybe for the rest of his life.

Rufford gripped Davie's arm. "She's dead. I saw her die."

Davie closed his eyes once. "Is she? She seems fairly alive to me."

Rufford took a breath and sat up. His body was covered with scars that were disappearing fast. Davie saw the older scars, though, that he had first seen when Rufford dragged himself in off the desert in El Golea, twin circles at throat and groin and the insides of his elbows, jagged tears in his pectorals and his thighs, scars of a whip across his shoulders. They were made before he gained his power of healing. They said he knew what serving Asharti meant. "There is life and… love after Asharti. Take it from me, Ware." His eyes were blue pools of pain and determination.

Davie chuffed a bitter laugh. "Are you sure? We're barely hanging on against her leavings, and I'm not sure you can last much longer."

"I'll hold out. I have to."

I'll go to Northumberland, Emma thought. Surely things will be better at Birchwood.

She tossed her gloves on the dressing table. She was still agitated from leaving Bedford House in a huff. Flora, her maid, unpinned her bodice and untied her skirts. She let the skirt pool at her ankles. Flora helped her shrug off the bodice and unlaced her corset, saying nothing. "You may go, Flora." Emma drew the chemise over her head and slipped on the nightdress Flora had left.

Things wouldn't be any better in the country.

Love didn't come along every day. But against all odds, Emma had found love. She loved Davie. Probably had loved him for years. That was why she never mistook girlish crushes on a man in a uniform or with a handsome face for real love, and why she could refuse dukes and poets in the face of betting at White's. And since she'd found love, she wasn't content to be a spinster. She wanted more of the feeling she got when Davie took her shoulders or brushed his lips across her hands. Much more. She wanted Davie in her bed making love to her, and at her side at the breakfast table planning their day. She wanted to share his life, and give pleasure and comfort to him in all the ways a woman could. She wanted to grow old with him and wise.

She crawled into the great bed in the room reserved for the lady of Fairfield House. A fire crackled in the grate, its warmth proof against the capricious March winds.

The worst of it was that Chlorinda and Miss Campton thought her a rebel because she was willing to be a spinster if she couldn't have love. No, the worst was that she thought herself a rebel. What had she done but refuse a few offers of marriage that were distasteful to her and occasionally speak too bluntly to be conventional? What kind of rebellion was that? It hadn't cost her anything. And what if she set up housekeeping on her own so Richard could retire to Northumberland with Damien? Would that be rebellious? Hardly.

No, rebellion would be chucking it all to go after the man she loved.

She sat up. The room seemed to expand and contract around her as everything changed. Her mind darted in a thousand different directions.

Why not? What did she care for danger, or hardship?

But what if he didn't love her? She thought back to that day in the breakfast room and their painful conversation. He loved her. She was sure of it. Duty was in the way. What of that? She could help him execute his duty. That was what people who loved each other did.

The whole problem with being a woman was that you had to wait for a man to give you what you wanted. You couldn't make a push for it yourself.

But why? Davie didn't think he could ask her to sacrifice her comfortable ways. But that was exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to make her rebellion real.

There would be a cost. She'd be leaving behind everything she had known, including Richard. She'd never be received in polite society, ever. There was danger, according to Davie. Davie might be angry. Probably would be angry. She might die with him.

And what of the cost if she didn't even try? A dry descent into a half-life of regret. That was all she had to look forward to if she retreated from this moment without taking any action.

Plans formed and re-formed in her mind. Could she do it? How did a gently bred young woman just up and leave for Casablanca? Money, of course. A companion, no, two. Where to get them? She mustn't tell Richard until after she had gone. He wouldn't understand. But Damien would help her. He always had a soft spot for her, and he had an interest in getting her off Richard's hands. Besides, Damien was a believer in true love. He'd brave Richard's wrath. Passage on a packet. Could she even find Davie in Casablanca? Surely the embassy would know where he was. Unless the worst had already happened. But she wouldn't think about that. She'd write to Damien first thing in the morning.

Chapter Four

Davie strode through the dusty streets of Casablanca wearing leather boots, a vest over his bare chest, and the loose pants identified with Berbers. Not that anyone would mistake him for one. His pale skin had tanned and his light hair was concealed by a head cloth, but his light eyes betrayed him. The saber hanging from his belt clanked against his thigh. The city would be unbearably hot if not for a hint of the sea in the air. The sun beat down remorselessly even in April. Behind him two bearers he had hired only this morning carried a large wooden box of sabers and a huge pack filled with food, leather pouches of blood, and clean clothing. They had no idea what they carried, and he was careful never to use the same ones twice. He chose only those sitting full in the sun to be sure they weren't vampire, just in case the scent of cinnamon was masked by the aroma of spices or the smell of camel dung.

How long had he been doing this? Forever. It must seem longer to Rufford and Fedeyah. Now Davie stayed each dawn until they arrived to be sure they could get the blood they needed to heal. The toll their campaign took on them was horrible to behold. There was no question of retreat, though. If humans were raised for their blood and vampires multiplied indiscriminately, both races would die out entirely.

He fingered the message from Admiral Groton demanding a full report on the status of Casablanca and Rufford's plans for coordinating the effort against Asharti's army. Davie didn't think he wanted Whitehall interfering with Rufford, now or in the future. Rufford was a moral man. Davie smiled to himself. He had never thought to say that about a monster. But it was more than he could say of Whitehall on occasion. He trusted the future of the human race more to Rufford than the Admiral and the Lord High Chancellor.

Davie directed the bearers into a side alley and up the stairs into a small apartment that would be their shelter tomorrow. He would sleep here tonight to ensure that no one but him was waiting for Rufford and Fedeyah.

Cinnamon! Davie jerked around, scanning the tiny winding street lined with bright fabrics drying in the sun and filled with children laughing as they darted over the cobblestones. He could see no one suspicious. Lord! He was getting jumpy. He dismissed the bearers, unpacked his supplies, then ventured out to scour the city for tomorrow's safe retreat. Finally, his work done, he returned to the house he had left at dawn to check on the vampire warriors as they slept the day away and tried to regain their strength.

He slipped into the darkened house. Lately they were so exhausted they had been sleeping like the dead. He grimaced at the image. They weren't dead, though. Vampires were very much alive. He moved quietly through the front room, the table still strewn with the remains of their repast, and into the dim sleeping quarters.

There was no reason he should sense trouble. The cinnamon scent could have belonged to Rufford and Fedeyah. The presence he felt could have been theirs. But it wasn't.

There! The wind flapped the dark fabric at the window and let in enough light to gleam against metal. Davie didn't stop to think. His sword slithered from its scabbard. The shadow, a deeper black in the dark, whirled to face him. His two charges stirred from their sleep. He raised his sword, not quite sure of his target. Metal bit into his side. He grunted with the shock of pain. Rufford rose. The sword in Davie's side was pulled out. The shadow was moving left, toward Rufford, sword up. Rufford's neck! Davie lunged forward, swinging the saber with both hands. It struck and stuck. He felt a warm splash across his face and chest. He pulled his sword away and tried to find an opening to strike again. Rufford struggled with the intruder. He couldn't risk wounding Rufford. Something thumped onto the floor. The vampire's sword clattered away. Fedeyah crouched, fighting another attacker. Davie turned to Fedeyah's foe, but Rufford, moving too swiftly for Davie's senses, was there before him. Did Rufford grab the intruder's head with both hands and simply wrench? Davie must have been mistaken. He was feeling dizzy now. It was dark. He sank to his knees.

Rufford turned from the shadowy figures lying on the packed-earth floor, and dragged Davie into the front room. Fedeyah lit a candle. Davie looked down and saw that his flowing pants were soaked with blood that was oozing from a wound in his side. Blood was splattered across his chest and leather vest, too.

"Got you good," Rufford muttered, sitting him forcibly in a chair. Davie craned to see into the room beyond, now dimly lit by the glow of the candle beside them. A body was clearly visible. It didn't have a head that he could see. "You almost got his head off." Rufford knelt beside Davie to examine the wound. "Saved my neck."

"It's hard to decapitate with a sword," Fedeyah observed as he ripped a clean burnoose into strips. "You have strength."

"Rufford had to finish the job," Davie said through teeth clenched against pain.

Fedeyah examined the wound. "Thrust clean through. Nothing vital touched."

Rufford touched the blood sprayed across Davie's torso. He looked up, shock in his eyes. "Some of this blood isn't yours." He pulled Davie's vest away. Davie looked down. The splatter of blood crossed his chest diagonally and splashed across the wound gaping in his side.

"Must be his…" Davie stared up at Rufford as the implications washed over him. Vampire blood. In his wound. "My God…" He looked around wildly. "Water! Flush it out."

Rufford straightened and put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in the chair. "Too late."

Davie slumped. He was a dead man.

In that moment all he could think about was Emma. He realized that somewhere inside he had held out hope he would survive this nightmare and return to Emma. Now, she would never know why he had left or how very much he loved her. He remembered her sweet face, anxious with concern for him, trying to tell him in every way allowed how much she wanted him. A vision of her as a tomboy, holding up her skirts to wade through his lily pond after frogs, slipped through him. At seventeen to her nine years, he had seemed so much older and wiser than she was. He felt a smile tremble on his lips. He had known nothing about her then, and now that he knew, he would never get to tell her just how wonderful she was.

"Guess we'll have to find you another procurer," he managed.

Rufford stared at him, brows knit. Suddenly Rufford jerked away and began to pace furiously, hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles were white. A burning started in Davie's side. He blinked several times, trying to master it, but it seemed to creep into his veins. Fedeyah stood over him, sympathy in his eyes. "How… how long?" Davie asked.

"Several days. A week. Not a pleasant death," Fedeyah remarked. He glanced to Rufford.

"You'd… you'd better leave me, then." Davie was having trouble getting his breath. "I'll draw a map… to your next… safe house."

Rufford ran his hands through his hair. That loosened the ribbon that bound it, and it cascaded over the shoulders of his burnoose. "Damn it, Fedeyah, we can't serve him thus!"

Fedeyah nodded, thoughtful. "I remember thinking the same of you once."

Rufford came to stand over Davie. His face was grim. "I have the blood of an Old One in my veins. My blood can give you immunity to the Companion and it will do its work quickly."

Davie cast about for meaning. "Make me… vampire?"

Rufford nodded. A muscle jumped in his jaw where he clenched his teeth.

"I thought the point… was to eradicate… made vampires." Davie wondered if the smile he managed was wry.

"You've got it wrong." Rufford's eyes were hard. "Fedeyah and I are both made vampires. The point is to stop those who would upset the balance of the world."

"I don't want… to be a monster." What had happened to his brave words to the Lord High Chancellor about vampires being victims, not monsters? They seemed naive. No, with reality staring him in the face, he realized he'd rather be dead than one who drank human blood.

Rufford nodded. "I know. I felt the same. But it doesn't have to be like that. You don't know the… joy of being one with your Companion. It can be… good. In all senses of the word."

"Doesn't look… very good… from here." The burning was consuming his vision. He felt light-headed, whether from loss of blood or the infection he didn't know. "Think I'll decline."

"I could force you," Rufford's voice grated out.

"You won't." He counted on Rufford's moral compass.

Rufford frowned and Davie knew he was right about him.

"You could use the Companion to do good in the world. If I made you, you'd be strong. We could use the help."

Ahhh. Playing on his sense of duty. Smart man, Rufford. Did Davie owe the world even becoming a monster? And what if they won through, unlikely as it seemed at the moment? He was left with eternal life and drinking human blood.

And yet… would he leave Rufford and Fedeyah to pay the price while he escaped with a few days of pain into death? His thoughts were getting muddled. Suddenly he seemed like the defector, betraying Rufford yet again. "I… don't know." Rufford seemed to be looking down at him from the end of a long tunnel. Could he abandon them just when things were darkest? "Give me your word you'll kill me if we prevail."

"If you still want it, I'll kill you. I give you my word."

He blinked. Was Rufford sincere? When had he not been? "Do it." He was about to become a monster.

Then the tunnel closed, and he saw nothing.

He was tied, spread-eagled, to the ambassador's bed. Asharti hung like a nightmare above him, her eyes glowing red. He was naked. Juice from the melon she was eating dribbled on his heaving chest as she sat beside him. The pain in his loins was almost unbearable. He writhed in his bonds, but there was no escape. She had been at him all night, bringing him up to a need that was painful, using him for her own pleasure without letting him release the molten fire inside him, opening wounds and licking them. How much more could he stand?

Not that he did not deserve it. She was punishing him for withholding information from her. He deserved the punishment for betraying Rufford. His cock throbbed against his belly. He groaned, much as he hated to give her the satisfaction.

"And have you learned your lesson?" she whispered, leaning down to his ear.

"Yes," he gasped. "Yes."

"I'm not sure." She pouted, tossing the melon rind to the floor. "And I must be very sure before I send you into the world. You must know what is in store for you if you disobey me."

The throbbing in his cock ramped up another notch. "I... I do!" he cried. "I understand."

She put a hand on his cock. He tried to wrench himself away, but he was bound too tightly. The scrape of her palm against his flesh was excruciating. She began to stroke him.

"God have mercy!" he panted.

Her throaty laugh shook her breasts. "No, my pet. You must ask me for mercy. I am your Goddess, not your paltry Christian God." She increased the pace of her hand moving up and down his cock. All the while her eyes glowed red. "Beg me for mercy."

Davie could hardly breathe. Fire seemed to be eating at him from inside. Still he hesitated. She could make him beg. But she didn't. She wanted him to abase himself on his own, damn her! But what use was pride when he might burst into flame at any moment?

"Goddess…" He gulped for air. "Have mercy on me."

She leaned in and brushed his lips with her own. "No," she said softly, and pierced his throat with her canines.

He was burning up. He rolled his head from side to side, trying to escape the flames. He heard moaning. And voices.

"Rufford, he needs you."

"I'm nearly healed."

"He can't wait."

That was Fedeyah. Davie opened his eyes. He lay on a bed in a darkened room, naked, just like his dream, only he wasn't tied down. And it wasn't the ambassador's great Tudor bedstead but a simple straw mattress on a wooden frame. Sweat-soaked sheets were bunched around him. Davie looked around, expecting to see Asharti waiting in the corner to torture him, but he saw only Rufford outlined in the doorway. The vampire was stripped to the waist. His torso was covered with half-healed wounds.

"Water," Davie croaked.

Rufford sat on the edge of the bed. "Water isn't what you need." He grabbed a great long knife from the bedside table and calmly sliced his wrist. Blood welled. Davie could smell it. Something inside him rose up and shouted in joy. What was that, that felt so… alive?

Rufford swiveled around and lifted Davie's head, holding his bleeding wrist to Davie's lips. "Quickly, suck before I heal."

Revulsion filled him. But another part hissed, Yes! He bent and sucked. The blood tasted like copper life flowing down his throat. He drew at the wound greedily. A sense of well-being flooded him. The burning itch along his veins receded. Too soon, the wound closed. He only just managed to restrain the urge to ask Rufford to open himself again.

Rufford seemed to read his thoughts. "In another hour or so, when I have rested." In truth, Rufford looked awful. There were dark circles under his eyes. His wounds were healing slowly. Had he drained his strength so that Davie could make peace with his infection? Davie lifted a hand to his sweaty brow and pushed back damp strands of hair. The lingering fear from his nightmare still vibrated inside him.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "Not sure thanks is enough for what you've done."

Rufford shrugged. "I'm making reinforcements. Strategic use of my blood. You should thank Fedeyah. He's been taking care of you."

Fedeyah came up behind Rufford with a fresh linen cloth and laid it over Davie. "Thank you, Fedeyah," Davie whispered.

Fedeyah grunted in acknowledgment. "Food?"

Yes. He could eat now. He nodded.

"I think you've turned the corner," Rufford observed, standing.

"How long has it been?" This was the first time Davie had even a mild interest. It felt like he had been dreaming of Asharti and burning inside forever.

"Two days. Would have been faster, but nights have been taking their toll on me."

"How bad is it?"

"People are leaving the city. Some panic and hoarding of supplies. More of the enemy coming in. Most are newly made, but they act together. Difficult."

"What he means is that blood is running in the streets." Fedeyah presented a bowl. Davie could smell the dates and goat cheese, along with the scent of the soap used to wash the linen, his own sweat and the mustiness of the earthen floor, the faint whiff of rancid oil in the bottom of a disused amphora in the corner. He heard the skitter of rats and the call of an imam far away. His senses poured information over him.

Rufford shrugged, trying to look confident. "Reinforcements will be here soon."

"When can I help?" Davie asked. Suddenly he realized how strong he felt, how… whole. Was this the joy Rufford talked about? Lord, there was some part of him that liked being a monster. He shoved it down. No, he didn't. He sacrificed himself to the cause of mankind. He would suffer being the stuff of nightmares in order to fight the greater nightmare. It was a fate worse than death. His opinion hadn't changed about that. But it was a price he would pay, at least for a while. Either he would be killed in battle or, if they won through, Rufford would kill him.

"Soon. I'll give you blood as often as I can. And there are things you must learn."

Translocating, Davie thought. Feeding. He shuddered and wasn't sure whether it was horror or ecstasy that trembled down his spine.

"One other thing I should tell you. The Companion with its will toward life gives us… more intense sensations of all kinds." Rufford got a secret smile. He raised his brows and shrugged. "It makes relations between a man and woman… well, the phrase 'joys of the flesh' takes on a new meaning." Rufford sighed. Was he missing his wife? "Don't be surprised by the frequency and power of your erections, especially at first. Later you'll get more control."

This all sounded like Asharti. Her ghost seemed to hover in the room, laughing that throaty contralto laugh. She had needed constant satiation, regardless of the cost to others. A horror of premonition shot through Davie. "Tell me I don't have to be like her."

Rufford chuffed a laugh. "You don't. You won't be. And how I wish there had been someone to tell me that when she first made me."

Everything had changed, except one thing. He had lost Emma. Now he was separated from her not just by distance but by his very nature. "I only hope Emma never knows what I've become. I could not bear her revulsion."

Rufford looked at him for a moment. "She didn't strike me as a fragile flower. Beth liked her. And Beth doesn't like the kind of woman who goes into hysterics."

"I'm not talking about having the vapors over some social slight. The stakes are a little greater than that, Rufford."

"Well, you know her better than I."

"I'm just glad she's safe at home. I wonder you can bear to have your wife in danger."

"It wasn't my choice," Rufford said softly. "Women have minds of their own, especially Beth. And in a partnership you must treat their desires as equal to yours or you will lose them."

Advice on women from a vampire? And one who made his beloved into a vampire, too.

"Rest," Rufford commanded. "I'll be ready to give you more blood in an hour."

Emma Fairfield came down the gangplank to the quay from the xebec that had brought her on the last leg from Gibraltar. The solid land beneath her feet felt strange. It had been three weeks since she had left Portsmouth. Not as fast a trip as she would like. But the captain of the packet she had booked passage on for her and her three companions had gotten wind of evil doings and political upheaval in Casablanca and set its passengers down in Gibraltar. It had taken several days to find a Turkish trader willing both to try to get its cargo into Morocco and to take her up. In Gibraltar she'd sent the two women home in the propriety of each other's company under the protection of Mr. Stubbs. She had only required their company in order to book passage in the first place, since no respectable English ship's captain would entertain taking a single lady aboard. Thank goodness the Turkish captain had no such nice compunctions.

During the journey she had managed not to let the doubts about what she was doing creep in. There was too much to do to pacify her wrangling companions during the first leg of the journey and too much fresh and strange to be interested in at Gibraltar. Then with the necessity of bribing the Turkish captain and hiring bodyguards for the second leg of the journey, she'd hardly had time for second thoughts.

Now she was here, where Davie might be.

She was surprised that there were only three ships in the harbor and very few people on the quay. Her experience with harbors said that they were usually teeming with workers and passengers and sailors. Those in evidence here seemed to be hurrying about in a sort of random panic. The city spread out above her, the whitewashed adobe buildings with their red tile roofs marching up the hill. Palm trees drooped in the hot April sun. The bougainvillea might be colorful beneath the fine coating of dust, but one couldn't really tell.

She swallowed. Second thoughts came down in buckets now. It suddenly seemed very much harder than she imagined to find Davie. He had said he'd start in Casablanca, but that didn't mean he was still here after more than six weeks.

Well, no use crying before the milk was even surely spilled. The first thing was to acquire a roof over her head. She stalked up to a single cart, finished dumping its cargo unceremoniously by the dockside. The driver shook his head and made a woeful sound when she asked after the Prince Hotel. He dropped her and her trunk in front of a modern building in the Georgian style without ceremony. A stream of obviously English people flooded into the street.

"You there, with the cart!" an older man accosted her driver. "To the harbor. I hear a ship has come in."

"That's my cart," a hefty woman with several ostrich plumes in her brocade turban protested in a screeching voice. Several others joined in the melee. Emma looked about for a doorman. Not seeing one, she hoisted her trunk by one handle and dragged it through the doors.

Inside, chaos reigned. The uniformed attendant behind the desk was arguing with several people. Luggage was stacked everywhere and guests, predominantly men, were rushing about with neck cloths askew and without apparent purpose, contributing to the pandemonium. "Excuse me," she shouted to the man behind the desk, as several of those accosting him threw up their hands and rushed away, creating a gap. "May I check in?"

"Check in?" The man frowned. "Everyone's checking out!"

"Why?" she asked. Several people turned to her in astonishment.

"The embassy evacuated," the deskman explained.

"Blood in the streets," a portly woman wailed.

"The end of the world as we know it." This from a gentleman with long white mustachios.

"The place isn't safe for civilized people."

"Murders every night."

"People drained of blood."

The crowd parted as several more people just dropped their bags and ran for the door under the onslaught of this litany.

Emma felt the blood drain from her face. Davie had said it would be dangerous, but the reality of a city in panic shook her. He must be here. But if the embassy had been evacuated, how would she find him? She took hold of herself and gave herself a mental shake. Let them panic. She had a purpose. She had to find Davie.

The man behind the desk looked around wildly at the crowd rushing for the door and simply deserted his post. Good, Emma thought. She grabbed a key labeled "106." That might be on the first floor. She dragged her trunk upstairs. She didn't stay long in the room, though. She pushed out through a lobby now nearly empty and into the heart of the city.

What few people were left all seemed to be hurrying this way and that with bundles on their backs or chickens under their arms or carts full of rugs or furniture or pots, whatever they had. Panic crept into Emma's soul. She tried to stop several people to ask them if they had seen a tall, blond Englishman, but they shook her off and hurried on.

Tears of frustration welled up into her eyes. Had she come all this way only to be denied by a city in panic? She found herself at the open-air market surrounded by stone arches of Romanesque design. Most stalls had already been deserted and their goods abandoned. Some were being looted openly. Others had their wares scattered and broken. Shouts echoed around her. As she turned, she saw in the harbor below a ship weighing anchor, its sails flapping into place. Only one ship remained. Retreat was being cut off even as she failed in her purpose. A man with very bad teeth leered at her and said something unintelligible. He grabbed her arm. She twisted away and ran farther into the market, ducking under cloth hung over ropes for display.

Her breast heaving, she crouched under the fabric. Her breath slowed. She looked up. They were burnooses. That would cover her blonde hair. She pulled one that looked smaller off the line and over her head, twitching up the hood. There, that was better. Now what to do? She peeked over into the next stall. Canvasses stretched across wooden frames were stacked neatly against the tables. She spotted charcoal. The stall belonged to an artist…

Emma had an idea. She slipped into the stall. A charcoal… canvasses, and a knife.

Very well. If she could find some nails and a hammer, she had the beginnings of a plan.

They swung through the empty streets, silent, senses pushing out into the night, searching for the ones who would be waiting. Davie saw clearly in the dark now. He no longer wondered why Fedeyah and Rufford never needed candles. He had been hunting with them for nearly a week. Rufford insisted he act only as backup since he was still so newly made. But that did not make the battles any less horrific. Or his horror at his new condition less intense. He wondered that Rufford and Fedeyah were still sane.

Everything had changed in the last week. Davie could call his Companion and use its power to draw the darkness for translocation or to compel a weaker mind. His strength amazed and appalled him, as did the painful burns sunlight caused on skin and eyes. These were signs that he had left his humanity behind. And the sexual need was so intense it had been a torment during the last days. He clung to Rufford's assertion that he didn't have to be like Asharti, but privately he had his doubts. Who knew to what he would stoop when the need for blood or sexual fulfillment raged through his body?

Whenever Asharti seemed near enough to invade his thoughts, he would conjure up an image of Emma and let the love he had seen in Emma's eyes the last time they met banish his memory of Asharti's whips and fangs. Images of Emma did not banish the erections, though. Quite the contrary. And thinking of how repulsed she would be by his new nature created bleakness in his belly but didn't counteract the power of her image on his body.

Perhaps worst of all was the strange exhilaration that threatened to overwhelm him sometimes. How dared he feel so alive, so whole, when he was a creature of night and nightmares? Would he burn in hell for what he had taken from Rufford?

"We'll have trouble feeding with all the humans leaving town," Rufford muttered as they strode down a winding alley toward a broad avenue lined with jacaranda trees.

Davie still chose to take his blood from a cup filled by Rufford or Fedeyah from the wrist of a donor. He couldn't bear to think of drawing his power to elongate his canines and plunge them into a living throat.

They'd been having trouble feeding at all since Davie couldn't procure for them in daylight hours. They holed up wherever they could, easier in the last few days with so many houses vacant. They'd tried feeding before the nightly conflict began, but often the battle came to them before they were ready, with so many of Asharti's minions about. After the battle, they were in no condition to find what they needed. They'd gone without last night. With no blood, how would they keep their strength up?

Rufford backed against a wall at the corner of the boulevard and peered around. Suddenly he straightened. "Well, Ware, do you happen to have a relative named Davie?"

Davie gave a start. "It's Vernon Davis Ware," he said in a low voice. "My family and oldest friends called me Davie." Why had Rufford grown curious now?

Rufford simply pointed. Davie peered into the night. A canvas was tacked to a building across the alleyway at the other corner of the intersection. On it was written, clearly, in charcoal or some such, "Davie Ware. I'm at the Prince Hotel."

Davie was drawn across the alley, enthralled. Who knew him as Davie that might be here in Casablanca? And what was that stuck over the nail that held the canvas?

God! It was a lock of yellow hair, bound by a strip of ribbon.

He turned on Rufford. "Miss Fairfield!"

The scent of cinnamon wafted down the boulevard. "They come," Fedeyah said. Davie drew his sword. Damn!

"Get to the Prince Hotel," Rufford said through gritted teeth.

"I won't leave you two to face them." Shadows drifted out onto the boulevard.

"Think, man! You can't leave her alone in Casablanca now."

Davie counted. Eight? His gut twisted. Rufford was right, but his duty was here. "Why did she come?" he muttered.

"You have to ask?" Rufford's grin was wicked. He motioned with his head. "Lucky dog. Get out of here."

"Four to one," Davie warned.

"We've had worse." When Davie still hesitated, Rufford lifted his brows. "I've got Old blood in my veins, man."

Davie took a breath of night air, redolent with jasmine and ominous with cinnamon. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You'll never find us. We'll use the hotel as our safe house." Rufford drew his sword as he scanned the street. "Protect her. We'll see you at dawn."

Davie took off at a run for the waterfront.

Chapter Five

Emma sat, quiet for the first time in days, and looked out on the night from her small balcony. It wasn't that she wasn't frightened. She was. But there was nothing more to be done. She had posted her signs all over the city this afternoon even as the teeming hordes left town. The harbor was empty. The last ship had sailed on the evening tide. From where she sat she could see several fires burning in the town, but the looting now seemed sporadic. She had gathered lamps from several other rooms to be sure she had enough oil, and locked her door. She was going to sit here day and night with a light burning like a beacon until Davie came for her. She wouldn't let herself think of how angry he would be that she was here or that he might not even be in the city to see her signs. Every piece of common sense said this would work out badly. So she resolved not to listen to her common sense.

The hotel was quiet behind her. The shouting in the streets had grown distant. So she clearly heard the pounding of boot heels taking the stairs up from the lobby two at a time. Her heart leaped into her throat. She would be raped and killed in the next minutes, or…

She looked to the door. He burst through it as though it were made of paper, lock and all. "Davie!" She ran to him without thinking, relief flooding her. The door twisted into the room on broken hinges. He took her in an embrace that was like to break her ribs. She didn't care.

"Emma!" he said into her hair. "Emma, what are you doing here? This is no place for a woman." But the chastising nature of the words was lost in his lips moving through her hair, his breath warm. He was wearing only a shirt open at the collar and trousers and boots. He hadn't shaved in several days, but that didn't make him seem unkempt, only rugged and more male than she remembered. She had never seen him without a coat and waistcoat. The hardness of his body beneath his shirt and the exotic scent of cinnamon he wore combined to assault her senses.

But he'd asked a question. What was she doing here? And she'd never really thought what she would tell him. He held her away from his body and looked at her with hungry eyes. His gaze roved over her and stopped at her hair. "Oh," she said apologetically, shaking her head, now full of unruly blonde curls. "I cut off all my hair to make the signs."

Davie gave a lopsided smile. "I like it." Then his grin collapsed. "Oh, Emma, it's too dangerous here. You shouldn't have come!"

She couldn't avoid this. "I… I couldn't sit at home and let you face… whatever it was you were facing. And don't you dare tell me I'm only a woman and I couldn't help." She felt a strange anger rising in her breast. What was she angry at? That he put himself in danger? That he hadn't offered for her? That he hadn't had the courage of his convictions…

She gathered herself. "If you don't love me, Major Vernon Davis Ware, tell me straight out and I'll go home. But if you do… then we belong together, no matter the circumstance. I'll not be a burden on you. And I'll stay out of the way. But I can help you; I know I can."

He looked at her with such intensity in his eyes it made her feel faint. He seemed so… alive. He was magnetic, hypnotic even. Had he been this attractive when she'd last seen him? It must be the air of danger that made him seem to vibrate with energy. "This isn't a diplomatic mission, Emma. It's a war."

"Plenty of women follow the drum." She swallowed. "I'll work in the hospital with your wounded. I've volunteered in the hospital in London, you know. Or I'll cook, or I'll wash for your men. I'm not proud, Davie, and I'm not delicate."

He was running his hands up and down her arms from shoulders to elbows, apparently unaware that he did so. His gaze roamed the room. "Emma, Emma, you don't understand."

She grew surer of herself. "You must tell me you don't love me if you want me to leave."

"You know I love you," he almost snapped. "Or you wouldn't have come here…" He seemed to recollect himself. "Your reputation… did you have a companion? Your brother?"

"I hired two females and a retired officer as escort." He looked relieved. Well, he'd better know the worst. "I dismissed them in Gibraltar. How could I bring them here with all the rumors of blood in the streets?" Now distress furrowed his brow. "I don't care a jot for my reputation, Davie. I love you. I'll bind your wounds, and barter my jewels for chickens for your stew. I can't stay at home going to parties where the worst thing anyone can imagine is that Lady Jersey is with someone else's child again. And don't think I'll ever love anybody but you. You were talking nonsense that day in Grosvenor Square. If you won't have me, I'll go to Paris or Vienna and set up on my own and I'll die without knowing the joys of marriage. I won't settle for some loveless union with a duke or a poet."

He smiled ruefully and sighed. Then he touched her cheek with the back of his index finger and stroked gently. "My brave, rebellious Emma. You always did have more courage than any ten girls put together."

She wished he would take her in his arms again. As a matter of fact, she wished he would do more. She wanted to cross some line from which she couldn't retreat. In spite of her brave words, she needed to put England and home and small social concerns beyond her reach, to remove any risk that she might just run home with her tail between her legs if the going got rough. Today in Casablanca she had realized that the going might get very rough. She wanted to leave who she was behind entirely. She slid her hand up behind his neck and pulled him down to her. He looked… well, frightened. She brushed her lips across his, not quite believing she could be this bold. She really was a rebel!

"Emma," he breathed into her mouth. "You don't know… what I might… do."

"Yes, I do, Davie," she said with more confidence than she felt inside. "At least I know what I'm hoping you'll do." To punctuate her statement, she slid her hand underneath the open collar of his shirt. The skin at the nape of his neck was damp in the heat of Casablanca. "We love each other. You're going to show me how to love you." She was going to give up her virgin state in order to cross her line. All she had to do was convince him.

"You must save that for your marriage bed." He was breathing hard. She sidled into him and felt the shocking hardness under his trousers roll against her hip. He wanted her!

"That can be my marriage bed," she breathed, pointing to the bed in the other room of the suite. "When we can find someone to perform a ceremony, we will make it official." She saw the conflict churning behind his eyes. How dear that he was so concerned for her he would try to suppress his physical desires. But she wasn't going to let him do that. "If you want me, take me," she challenged. "But know I don't give myself lightly. It will be our troth."

A thousand thoughts careened and collided in Davie's head. The thing in his blood shouted down his veins, throbbing with life and a sexual intensity that muddied his thoughts. He shook his head as though to clear it. He couldn't make love to Emma. Who knew what he might do when in the throes of passion? And he couldn't marry her either. She didn't know he was a monster. He couldn't let her stay in Casablanca where horror stalked the streets. He'd be dead soon, or, if he lived through this terrible campaign, he'd live forever. Neither would be good for Emma.

And yet… she needed the protection of marriage, at least in name. He could not let her go to some foreign city alone, to fall victim to the first rogue she met. If she bore his name, he could write to Charles. Davie's family would look out for her. Then she could return home to the comfort of England and her own family at least. He'd make up some tale as to why she had abandoned her chaperones. He'd think of something.

Very well. He'd find someone to marry them, if he lived through the night. He swallowed and tried to breathe, and took her in his arms. "I am yours," he whispered. "For as long as I live. My name will be your protection, and all that I have."

"For better or worse, 'til death do us part," she recited.

He swallowed, then nodded.

"Then love me."

The thing in his blood sang out in agreement with her, but that was too dangerous. He couldn't give in to passion. He thrust himself away from her and stumbled to the doors open to the balcony. He leaned against the wall. "I dare not consummate our marriage vows," he choked.

She looked stunned and hurt for moment. Then he saw her muster herself. "You won't get off so easily," she chided, her tone deliberately much lighter than his. "You've practically promised me a night of lovemaking, and I shall hold you to it."

He jerked back to her. "I'm not safe," he said through clenched jaws.

"You'd never hurt me," she said, trying to smile.

"I'd never want to." His eyes were wild now. "But people like me, they… they hurt people like you. I know. I used to be like you. Someone… hurt me."

Her brows contracted. "Hurt physically?"

He nodded, a jerky motion, cleared his throat. "You wouldn't think it possible, I know—a woman hurting a man. But it is." He almost choked on those words.

"A woman hurt you when she made love to you?" She sounded incredulous.

He swallowed and looked away. "Yes."

There was a moment as she digested that. Finally she said, "Whatever has happened to you in this godforsaken place, you are still you. You're a good man, Davie. And you love me. I trust you." She went up behind him and put a hand on the muscles bunched in his shoulder. The water was rising against the dam inside him. She sucked in a breath and put her other hand on his hip. The feel of her hand on his flesh beneath the fabric sent an electric charge straight to his loins. "And whatever happened before, you need a woman who loves you and wants to give herself to you." He turned, tentatively. She smiled. "I think I fill the bill."

Sweet, giving Emma. Her generous nature, her courage touched him deeply. He couldn't let her think he didn't want to make love to her. "Oh, God, Emma! I want you, like… like I've never wanted anything or anyone before."

"Then take me, because I want you just that much in return." Her voice was calm, though he could see her heart pounding in her throat. The dam inside him burst. He couldn't resist her. But he could resist the thing in his blood. He'd make sweet love to Emma and give her something of a wedding night, in case he was dead tomorrow, and she a grieving widow.

He swept Emma up as though she weighed nothing and carried her into the bedroom. The feel of his hard chest against her breasts made her shudder. At last! Whatever had happened to him in the past, she knew she could heal with time.

"I'll keep control, Emma; I promise," he said as he laid her across the bed and began to strip off his shirt. It was dim in this small room. Only the light from the lamps in the sitting room cast a glow through the doorway. His pale, muscled torso and shoulders made her suck in breath. His chest was covered with curling light hair. His nipples looked soft She licked her lips and thought what it would be like to kiss them. He sat beside her, pulled off his boots, and began unbuttoning his trousers. Then he stopped, swallowed once, and ducked his head. "I'm sorry. This shouldn't be a rushed affair."

"Then you'll help me undress?" His trousers, partially unbuttoned, gaped over his belly, only just concealing what she wanted most to see. She swallowed.

He did help her undress. He took the pins from her dress one by one as though it was a precious ritual and untied the skirt, unlaced her light corset, pulled off the sleeves until she was standing in her chemise. Her nipples, turned suddenly sensitive, pressed against the fine linen fabric. She felt so vulnerable, unlaced in front of him. She sat and unrolled her stockings herself, as she glanced under her lashes to see him taking off his trousers and smalls with far less ceremony. He turned from her, but not before she had seen his erect member rising out of a nest of hair a shade darker than the blond on his head. It was so much larger than the statues she had seen. Well, that was rather… intriguing. Could all that fit inside her? She wanted to touch it, examine it. And that thought, in turn, made the throbbing between her legs turn… wet.

She let her gaze rove over his tight buttocks, strong thighs, the muscles moving in his back as he folded his trousers. His shoulders were wide—wait, what were those marks? She peered at him in the dim light. Scars. Deep furrows where wounds had healed without benefit of stitches.

All his talk of being hurt became real. Someone had hurt him terribly, purposefully, once. Could he mean a woman did these things to him? All Emma could think about was that she wanted to take that hurt away. She wasn't experienced in love-making, had never even seen a man in the state he was in now. But she was a rebel, wasn't she? She would cast aside maidenly shrinking from the act and try to give him pleasure, show him that love could be generous and sweet…

Davie turned away, ashamed at the throbbing erection that must shock her. Lord knows he'd had erections so frequently in the last week he should be used to it. But the thought of making love to Emma had induced a need that was almost painful in its intensity. He'd had those kinds of erections only with… her, but never of his own volition. He wouldn't think of that.

He was having trouble thinking at all. He shouldn't make love to Emma. It was his duty to restrain himself. She shouldn't give up her virginity. He couldn't marry her when he would be dead in a matter of days one way or another. He should send her home. How? The ships had left the harbor. But she must be married, mustn't she? She couldn't return home after traveling unescorted without the protection of his name, even if he himself was dead. Alone in Vienna or Paris? Unthinkable. What to do? Could he keep control? She must never know he was a vampire. He must never hurt her. His breathing grew ragged. How had he let her talk him into this moment, when he was naked and needing and not thinking clearly at all and she was there sitting on the bed behind him wearing only a chemise, her nipples clearly visible, and that halo of hair glowing in the dark… ? He could smell her musk of desire, feel the throbbing of blood in her veins. He closed his eyes, knowing he was lost.

He was going to make love to her, and in spite of the fact that he hadn't had blood in two nights, he would muster control of his urges and give her only tenderness and slow enjoyment in her first sexual encounter. He would find the strength. He had no choice.

He did not lay down his folded trousers but clasped them at his loins before he turned back to her, his unruly cock pressing insistently against the fabric. He gasped. She had shrugged out of her chemise and now sat, naked, on the edge of the bed, with a shy smile. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her breasts were as full as he'd imagined them, her legs long and shapely, and there, at the vee of her thighs, was the delicate curling blonde thatch that called so to him.

She held out a hand. He could not help but go to her. As he stood before her, she gently took his trousers from him and dropped them. "Would you keep me from enjoying all of you?" she whispered. Even in the dark, he could see her blush. But then, mustering her courage, she reached to stroke his cock, gently, caressing the underside, thumbing the tip. He thought he might pass out. "It's so silky soft," she marveled, "and yet so hard."

"I'm… glad it… pleases you." What did one say to a beautiful woman admiring her very first cock? Especially when one was busy wondering how one would avoid throwing her back on the bed and plunging said cock into that little vee of curling hair? Her hand cupped his balls and lifted them gently. They were so damned swollen and heavy they filled her hand.

"I've heard that these are very tender. Does this give you discomfort?"

He took two breaths before he could manage, "No."

"I can feel the stones inside."

"So can I." That was enough. He couldn't bear any more of her gentle explorations, so different from… No. He wouldn't think about her. It was time Emma had some pleasure. And he knew what pleasured women. He had been taught. He had… her to thank for that. He picked Emma up and placed her on the center of the bed and lay down beside her. He must introduce her slowly. She might be frightened if he asked to lick her or, worse, asked her to lick him. And then there was the fact that she was a virgin. She might be in so much pain after he broke her barrier, pleasure might not be possible. That meant he had to hold himself in check even longer. She must be pleasured first.

He brushed his lips across her forehead. His cock lay, hard and needing, against her soft white thigh. He willed it not to throb against her, without success. He could feel the blood pulse in the arteries just under her jaw. He put down all thought of blood ruthlessly and moved his lips down to hers. Her mouth opened to him easily. She had been kissed before. Someday he would want to know by whom. He licked the inside of her lips and then caressed her tongue with his. She returned the caress, making a little sound as she pressed her breasts against his chest. Her nipples, now tight buds, seemed to burn his flesh. He ran one hand down her back to cup her buttocks, squeezing gently. She took her lead from him and did the same. Her fingers trailed fire over his body. He had never felt the sensations of lovemaking so intensely. The aroma of her was so layered with complexity! He could distinguish the smell of the charcoal she had used to write the signs, the spices from the market she had been in, the musk of her desire, and underneath, her own sweet signature of scent. And she was alive with blood. But he couldn't think about that.

Now to bring her slowly and inexorably to her pleasure. He laid her back and sucked at first one nipple and then the other. She gave a little moan of pleasure and arched up to his kisses. What a sensual creature she was! As he sucked, his hands explored her body, smooth hip, tight belly, and then the thatch of hair. She spread her legs so that he could have easier access to her. That sweet act of giving touched him. He slid a finger inside her folds and felt the viscous fluid of desire there. Her bud of pleasure was already swollen. She gasped at his touch.

"Oh, Davie!" But she didn't pull away.

He slid down between her folds and put his middle finger into her tight passage. Her blood throbbed against his hand. He pushed deep, felt the barrier of the hymen. But… yes, it was partially torn already. Thank goodness for all her tomboy ways, climbing trees and riding ponies. She had probably been torn a little long ago. It would make tonight easier for her.

He turned his attention back to her lips and kissed her long and hard as he fingered her rising nub with his thumb. She brushed her nipples across his own instinctively searching for more sensation. God, but if he were given enough time he would show her everything. A woman like her should have the full experience of lovemaking and do it often. With him. She was gasping now, into his mouth. He lowered his lips again to her breasts and pulled gently against her nipple as he rubbed her slick membrane. He thought she was near. He mustn't keep her this close to her release for too long, or she might not plunge over the edge. He stopped all movement, all sucking, for a long moment; then just as she began to move her hips, seeking the return of sensation, he redoubled his efforts. She arched against him almost instantly, crying out over and over as he sucked and rubbed. He kept her going until her body jerked away of its own accord and she lay there in his arms, gasping, the pulse in her throat throbbing at him, aching to be opened. His Companion prodded him. He clenched his jaw and refused.

It was exciting to see her orgasm. She came to it so naturally. He lay there, cradling her in his arms, as her breathing returned to normal. He was nearly sure he could give her another one, if he waited for a moment to enter her. She opened her eyes. They were hot with desire. "That was marvelous. Is this what married women get to do?"

"As often as they want it."

"I will want it often." Then she looked conscious. "I had thought… that it happened with… with your…"

"My cock?" He smiled. "It does. And other ways as well."

"Well, then, I think I want your… cock."

The word on her lips, breathed into his ear as she touched the organ in question, drove down to his loins with exquisite torture. She rubbed the head again, only this time the clear liquid of his restraint was slicked over his burning flesh. "God, Emma," he choked. He raised himself and parted her knees, then knelt between them. A rising film of red desire seemed to coat his body. He wanted her, wanted… wanted. Lord help him go easy in spite of the flames that threatened to consume all control. He held himself above her and positioned himself at the entrance to her tight shaft.

"This might be uncomfortable," he said.

"Davie, I want your cock." Her tone was urgent. She wanted restraint no more than he.

He pressed inside her. She was so tight around him. A little farther… there was what remained of the barrier. He pushed home. She sucked in a breath as he filled her. That was all. Then he pulled almost back to the entrance, plunged again. This time she arched her hips and he lost all restraint. He slid in and out. He pulled her against him, showing her the dance in counterpoint that gave them both most pleasure. God, could he wait for her to reach her climax? His blood roared at him. His shaft throbbed inside her tight sheath. Emma, this was for Emma, not for him. She gasped, her panting growing quicker.

He pulled her up and held her against him while he knelt on the bed, moving her easily up and down on his shaft with his newfound strength. She arched her neck just in front of him, making small sounds with each stroke. No, he wouldn't answer the blood he felt throbbing in her throat. He wouldn't do what had been done to him…

And then she shuddered and made small yipping sounds as her muscles contracted around him, milking his cock. He exploded. The world went red. He spurted his soul out in a stream of molten lava, even as blackness threatened to overwhelm his vision.

He blinked as the room wavered back into view. What kind of an orgasm was that? He had felt as though he was… what? Transformed? Reborn? But he had managed not to take her blood. A new world opened up in front of him. He could resist the need. It had been sexual intercourse, extraordinary, but ordinary after all.

Emma was looking at him with a soft expression in her eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"I felt a twinge only. Nothing compared to what came after. You know," she mused, "the first time was very good, but the last time with you inside me felt more fulfilling. You said there are other ways?"

He smiled and nodded. "Lots of other ways."

"I want to know them. How many times can we do it?"

"I don't know," he said, barking a laugh. "A lot of times."

"Good," she said, snuggling into him.

"Maybe not an infinite number just in a row," he amended. "After a few we will have to rest. But there is always tomorrow…"

Rufford! Rufford and Fedeyah would be coming at dawn. If they survived the night. They had been doing their duty and suffering for it while he had been dallying here with Emma. He raised himself on one elbow. And when they came, they would be wounded and bloody, and they would heal too quickly. He had to keep Emma away from that and from knowing that her only protection from monsters was another monster. She must never know what he was.

But first, he'd let her show him how many times she'd like to be loved tonight.

"We're going to get some visitors at dawn," he said, looking at her tenderly. He was supremely sorry this night had to end.

They had made love to exhaustion. She was just stretching awake from having slept for a few hours. He drew her into his chest. There was no stopping time, though. "They need a place to recuperate from their battles. It… it has been my job to attend to them, and I must go when they come. And tomorrow night, I'll be with them, fighting."

She, too, raised herself on one elbow. Her lips were swollen from kissing, her cheeks and breasts still flushed. "Of course. I can help. I can take care of your compatriots, and you, God forbid, if comes to that."

"They have their own ways. There's nothing you can do." He hated rejecting her offer.

She looked at him strangely. Then she sat up. "Vernon Davis Ware, if you think I came all the way to Casablanca, married you—which I just did, minus the minister—just to have you keep me at arm's length, you'll have to think again. Whatever trials you have ahead are my trials. Do you understand?"

He did. But of course she had no idea what she'd gotten herself into. When it got close to dawn, he'd lock her in the room next door to protect her from the knowledge of just what she had married, for however brief a time. At that thought, winter seemed to blow into his soul, bleak and sere. And even more concerning, a little fire in that frozen landscape would not go out and hissed into the blowing snow, The blood is the life!

Chapter Six

How dare he?! Emma thought as she rattled the door-knob. He's locked me in!

She whirled and put her back against the door. She'd moved into the adjacent room at his insistence, because of the broken lock. Here she was, dressed in serviceable clothes and sensible half-boots, ready to go down and help him and his friends, and now he was trying to protect her from the ugliness of his life. She wouldn't have it.

She pushed off the door and went out onto the balcony. The sun was rising behind the city, for it created an answering glow out over the harbor, now empty of ships. We'll just see about that. She climbed up on the wooden chair and from there to the sidewall of the balcony. Don't look down. The gap isn't more than four feet. Hardly more than a step.

She held her breath and jumped, teetering on the wall of the balcony to her original room until she could grasp the striped awning and lower herself down. She dashed out through the broken door. Now to find her quarry. Where in the hotel would she be if she had just come in from battle? There were probably forty rooms here. No, not in a room. She'd be in the kitchens.

She went cautiously down the great staircase, then wended her way to the back from the lobby. She heard them before she saw them.

"Lord, Rufford, if reinforcements don't come soon…" Davie, sounding shocked.

"They'll come…" A weary baritone she recognized. She had stood up at his wedding to Beth Rochewell. Ian Rufford was here with Davie?

"Fedeyah, sit down. Drink this." Davie in his most commanding Major's voice.

"Enough! There is so little." An Arab accent. "Save some for Rufford and yourself."

She slid quietly toward an open doorway from which the voices came.

"I'll find more." This from Davie, but he wasn't sure. She could hear it in his voice.

"You can't go out in daylight." Mr. Rufford gasped for breath. "You'll fry."

"The city is deserted, except for them," the Arab muttered. "Unless Allah provides, we must do without."

Emma peered around the door frame. At first she couldn't quite take in what she was seeing. Davie stood over Mr. Rufford, who was laid out on one of the long wooden tables in the center of the kitchen. He cradled Mr. Rufford's head in one arm and was helping him to drink from a cup. Mr. Rufford's mouth was stained red, along with everything else. Blood was everywhere. Terrible wounds were revealed by the shredded clothing still clinging to Mr. Rufford. On the hearth of the great fireplace filled with spits and pots sat an Arab man with sad eyes, also wounded. The whole place smelled of blood. Shock and revulsion cascaded over her.

"I should never have left you to face them," Davie said, his voice soaked in guilt.

Mr. Rufford put up a hand and looked around. How was he still breathing? "Come in, my dear Miss Fairfield," he said hoarsely.

Davie swung round. The Arab looked up. She sighed and stepped out into the doorway.

"Miss Fairfield! Get back to your room!" Davie cried, laying Rufford back onto the table. He strode across to her and took her shoulders.

"Miss Fairfield"? "Get back to your room"? "As you recall, Major Ware, as soon as you can find a minister, it will be Emma Ware. And I told you when I accepted your proposal to share your life last night that I share it all, whether you like it or not." She looked to the other men. She was about to ask how she could help when a cut across Mr. Rufford's forehead sealed itself before her very eyes. She gasped. What is going on here ? Davie tried to turn her about and hustle her from the room, but she pulled out of his grasp. She glanced across to the Arab. The pink weal of a scar slowly disappeared from his cheek.

"What are you?" she whispered to Mr. Rufford, ignoring Davie's sputtering protests.

"Don't tell her," Davie warned.

"We are not like you, Miss Fairfield," Mr. Rufford said, getting up to one elbow. "Not anymore." A sword wound on his chest began to close.

She swallowed and tried to breathe. "I see that." She turned to Davie. "You might as well tell me."

He looked away, ashamed.

"Perhaps it would be easier if I tell you, Miss Fairfield. I'll be stronger in a bit." Mr. Rufford lay back, obviously exhausted.

She wanted to know now. Davie was leaning against the window frame as though defeated. She turned to the Arab. "You tell me."

The Arab glanced to Davie. "We have a thing in our blood, miss. It changes us."

"How?" She crossed the room to him, slowly. "How does it change you?"

"We are strong. We heal and live long. Sunlight is painful. We can move unseen."

Davie turned from the window, his expression fierce. "I don't think you're doing it justice, Fedeyah. It's a disease, Emma. We're vampire. We're immortal unless we're decapitated, and we drink human blood. No way around that. And Fedeyah forgot to mention the fact that we can compel weaker minds. We can make people do things they don't want to do."

They were vampire? The word echoed in her mind with horrible reverberations.

"God in heaven," Davie continued, rolling his head, "we can't even commit suicide! Rufford knows; he tried often enough. We're monsters, Emma, once we're infected. Monsters." This last was said on a note of such despair, her heart went out to him.

She stood, blinking stupidly, wondering what to do, what to think. Vampire, human blood, immortality. And Davie, her Davie, was condemned to this? She glanced to Rufford, who seemed only half-sensible, his wounds slowly resolving themselves. The red trickling from the corner of his mouth was human blood. How could she think that so calmly?

"Who did you kill tonight?" It was as though someone else asked the question.

"Others of our kind, made by an evil woman. Not pretty." Davie's mouth was grim.

Decapitation. She would wager it wasn't pretty.

"They want to rule the world," the Arab said. His voice grew incredibly sad. "They make more vampires. It would destroy the balance. We make jihad against them."

"Balance? What balance?"

"We do not kill humans for our blood," Fedeyah explained. "We don't make others of our kind. There are Rules. Rules they do not obey."

"And these Rules wouldn't condone marriage to a woman who isn't like you, would they?" She turned to Davie. Anger boiled up out of her belly uncontrolled. Davie drank human blood and was going to live forever unless he was killed in some horrible way fighting a war against monsters like him. "You knew that last night. And you let me think we could be happy together." Tears sprang from nowhere.

"Go back to your room, Miss Fairfield," Davie said. His voice was distant. He turned back to the window.

She whirled and ran down the corridor and up to her room. The damned door was locked, so she went into her original room and pushed the door back into its frame, no matter how silly that was. She couldn't lock out the creatures downstairs. With their strength they would just push through an unlocked door or a locked one. She remembered how Davie had burst into the room. She threw herself on the bed, sobbing, because all her innocence was lost and all her future, and the world held monsters and one of them was Davie.

She came out of a sleep feeling drugged and groggy. It was twilight. The sky outside the window was purple, edging into indigo. Someone was knocking at the door.

"Miss Fairfield?"

One of the monsters, she thought dully. Mr. Rufford. "Come in." What did it matter?

He pushed the door in gingerly. He was clean, shaved, no blood in sight. He wore a shirt open at the neck, black trousers, and riding boots to the knee. His brown, curling hair was tied back in a ribbon, just as it had been in St. James's Church when he had married Miss Rochewell. Hmmm. Emma thought about that.

He made a small bow. "Are you well? I thought you might be hungry." She got up on one elbow. He carried a plate: cold roast beef, horseradish, some radishes and small tomatoes, a chunk of bread. She was famished. How could her body betray her emotions so? Without waiting for an answer, he set the plate down on the table beside the bed. She sat up and touched her hair. "You look fine." He hesitated, looking as though he thought he should go but wanted to stay.

She didn't want him to go, she decided. In the shock of the moment in the kitchen, she hadn't realized what to ask. Now she did. "Won't you sit down?" she asked, gesturing to a chair.

He hesitated, then sat.

Emma's mind churned. She thought back to the wedding. "Miss Rochewell, I mean Mrs. Rufford…" She frowned. "Where is she now?"

"She serves the cause in Tripoli." The grimace around his mouth said he didn't like it. That was interesting, though. Beth Rufford was allowed to help the cause.

"Did she know?"

His blue eyes looked up sharply. "When she married me? Yes. A tribute to her courage."

Miss Rochewell had accepted that Mr. Rufford was vampire? How could she? Still… Emma sorted through what she knew. Drinking human blood—bad, but as long as they didn't kill… How could she be thinking that? Strong—that was fine. Compelling people against their will—bad again, but a good man could refrain, couldn't he? It occurred to her that compulsion might be one way a woman could hurt a man during sex. She wondered how Davie had been "infected" and whether it had anything to do with the evil woman who made vampires. And yet the most important thing Emma wanted to know might only be answered by this vampire sitting across from her who had married a mortal woman. "How… how does she bear the fact that she is mortal and you are not?" In some ways it came down to that.

Mr. Rufford took a breath. "She doesn't have to. She isn't mortal anymore."

Emma felt her eyes get big.

"As I said, she has courage." He looked fond and… proud. He shot her another sharp glance. "Beth and I accept who we are. More than accept. I can't explain. Major Ware may accept someday. I hope so. I promised to kill him if he demanded it. I hope I won't have to keep that promise." Mr. Rufford rose. "Eat. Keep up your strength. We must go soon. The jihad calls."

"Wait! How… how is one infected? How was Davie infected?"

"The blood from one of us must be ingested, or introduced through a cut. Major Ware came to serve our cause here in Casablanca as a human. It was an incredible thing to ask of him, but we needed someone who could go about in daylight. He was infected while he defended Fedeyah and me."

"How… did he get the scars I saw on his body?" She felt herself flush.

"Asharti." Mr. Rufford set his mouth. "She made the army we fight. We have all suffered at her hands." He nodded curtly, his confidences at an end. "Stay in tonight. The streets will not be safe." He slid out quietly.

Emma took up the plate and absently crunched a radish. Davie thought he was a monster. But Rufford didn't. He loved his wife. They had accepted… more than accepted that they were vampire. What did that mean?

Emma rolled up a slice of beef and dipped it in horseradish. Where else could one get beef and horseradish but in an English hotel, even on the other side of the world? English people always took who they were along with them. A fault perhaps. But therein lay a truth. Didn't one always take oneself along no matter how strange the destination? Were she and Davie any different at heart than they were yesterday? Mrs. Rufford joined her husband even when she knew the truth about him. Mr. Rufford must have made her vampire in spite of these Rules or whatever, they were, and he loved her, and…

And what?

And that changed everything.

Emma stared at the whitewashed walls of the room, painted crimson with the last of the dying sun. She was strangely aware of her lungs pushing air in and out of her chest, her heart thudding. The decision that rattled in her brain demanding to be made frightened her.

She had thought she was a rebel because she refused to marry someone she didn't love. True rebellion was deeper than that. She thought she was bold chasing after Davie to Casablanca. She didn't know then what "bold" meant. Now she would find out what she was made of. She was at the extreme edge of experience, and yet there was one more step to take. She had wanted to cross some line that would cut off all retreat to her humdrum life in England by giving up her virginity. Now she knew that wasn't a bold enough line.

The sky was lightening out the window of the hotel kitchen. Emma was ready for the return of the warriors. Could she face the kind of wounds she had seen yesterday morning? Could she bear to see Davie hurt? No time for those thoughts now. She had hot food prepared, a hearty lamb stew. She had ripped up some hotel sheets for bandages, though she wasn't certain they would be useful. One thing she knew they'd need she didn't have. Blood.

Or maybe she did.

Crashing sounded from the front lobby. Looters? The hotel had been deserted all day. Or maybe it was Davie coming back. She picked up a butcher's knife and ran to the front.

A ragged man knelt before two others, sobbing, pleading in Arabic. She might not understand the words, but she understood his horrified expression. He knew his life hung in the balance. The scent of cinnamon filled the air. He had obviously tried to take refuge in the hotel. Unsuccessfully. At her appearance his two persecutors swung around. A wicked grin stole over the face of the taller one. He saluted her. Both intruders had an avaricious gleam in their eyes. The stouter one turned back to the sobbing man. The one before her stalked forward two steps. His eyes turned red. There was no other word for it. And the grin on his face now included canines elongating into fangs. Panic soaked her. She had to run!

But she didn't. She walked forward though she knew she shouldn't, even though she was afraid. She struggled against the impulse, but still she took step after step, her chest heaving with useless resistance until she could feel his reeking breath, hot on her face. Behind her nemesis she heard a very human shriek, then a horrible burbling sound. She thought she might be going to pass out, because there was a whirling blackness just at the edge of her vision. The creature held her close. Red eyes filled her vision. She prayed to faint. The creature wrenched away from her and she fell to the floor. Above her, Davie shouted like a berserker as he slashed at her attacker.

Still dazed, she saw that Davie was already wounded in a dozen places. And there was Mr. Rufford. How was he still standing? But they were, fighting the two attackers. On the floor near the door was the ragged man, his throat ripped out The scene taking place around her seemed unreal, it was so horrific. Emma heard Davie's grunt as a blade found him, a shriek of anguish as Rufford felled one. She felt the splatter of warm liquid and blinked when a head rolled past her.

It was over. The lobby seemed strewn with body parts. Davie sank to his knees in the gore. Mr. Rufford wavered on his feet but went to help him. A whirling darkness dissipated in the corner and Fedeyah stepped out of it. She was beyond surprise.

Fedeyah came to help her up. "We have rats in the house," he observed. "That makes forty." She saw that she was still gripping the silly butcher's knife. She let it clatter to the floor.

This? This was what they had been facing every night?

Mr. Rufford pulled Davie's arm over his shoulder. "To the kitchens."

Emma trailed in their wake, still blinking. They staggered into a kitchen, filled with the smell of spiced lamb stew and her neat rows of rolled bandages. Fedeyah sank on the raised hearth. Mr. Rufford heaved Davie up on the huge wooden table and then simply sank to the floor, his back against a table leg. Davie didn't move.

"What, what can I do for you?" she asked faintly. Her rolled bandages seemed ludicrous.

"Blood," Mr. Rufford breathed.

She felt her own blood rush from her face.

"No, no." Rufford shook his head wearily. "Not from you. From the dead man by the door. It must be from the human."

She swallowed. Very well. She grabbed an intricately painted terra-cotta bowl and turned to face the lobby. She kept her mind tight, small. Step. Step. Step. Survey the room. Find the ragged man. Did the ragged tear in his throat still bleed? Yes. Step. Step. Kneel. Hold the bowl. Keep your mind a blank. Don't look at his opaque eyes. Keep your stomach clenched. The flow slowed to a drip. Look at the bowl. Not full. Survey the room. Blood everywhere. But not human. This is all the human blood. Is it enough? Stand. Wait for the room to steady. Step. Step. Step. Careful with the bowl.

She fell to her knees in the hallway and vomited onto the tiles. But she didn't spill the precious bowl. Then she staggered up. Push into the kitchen. Kneel in front of Mr. Rufford. "Is it enough?"

She saw the answer in his look. "Give it to Fedeyah and Ware. I'll do."

Now was the moment. "I'll take care of Major Ware," she whispered, and offered the bowl to Mr. Rufford.

He peered at her through exhausted eyes. A small smile curved his lips. He nodded, took the bowl, and gulped his half. The gray in his complexion faded. "I told him he was a lucky dog."

She chewed her lips and glanced to Davie. "This doesn't seem lucky."

"It will, if we can prevail against the tide."

"I hope you're right." She took the bowl to Fedeyah, who drank the balance. Both he and Mr. Rufford were healing faster. Only Davie remained still and bleeding. She glanced to Rufford. "How… how do I do this? Must I cut myself?" She hoped she had the courage.

To her surprise, Rufford pushed himself up and looked around. Then he pulled Davie from the table, hefted his limp form across his shoulders, and staggered to a little storeroom off the main kitchen. There he laid Davie down across some sacks of flour. "Gently," Mr. Rufford said. "Lie by his side. He will know what to do." He stumbled from the room.

Emma looked around and saw a flint and candle. She lit the candle and shut the door. The smell of flour and dried beans was overwhelmed by the cinnamon scent of Davie and the smell of blood. She swallowed. No time to lose the courage of your convictions. Davie needed her. And if what he needed wasn't just in the ordinary line of mending handkerchiefs and hosting his dinner parties, well, that was just what she had escaped London to avoid.

She tried not to look at his wounds as she lay down. She was dimly aware that he had cuts and gouges over much of his body. His clothes were in tatters. He'll heal, she told herself. Just like Rufford and Fedeyah. She pressed herself to his side and felt the warmth there. She brushed the hair back from his forehead. There was a gash on his cheek that didn't seem to be healing at all and one on his shoulder, peeking through his torn shirt. "Davie," she whispered. His eyelids fluttered. "Davie, wake up and take what you need."

The blue eyes opened, struggled to focus. Then he turned to her. "You shouldn't be here, Emma," he whispered. "You shouldn't have seen—"

"This is exactly where I should be," she corrected. She tried to keep fear from knocking against her ribs as she saw his eyes flicker red.

"No," he gasped in a strangled sob. His eyes faded to blue. He wrenched his head to the side. "I'm a beast, Emma."

She reached to his jaw and gently turned him back to face her. "You're my Davie. I'm your Emma. Nothing has changed. I want you, Vernon Davis Ware. And I'm not going to give you up just because you're immortal and strong. Or over the blood. Miss Rochewell didn't give up Rufford."

"You don't know—"

"But I do. Surely nothing can be worse than tonight."

"One mortal, one not…" He shook his head ever so slightly.

She left that for later, just put up her chin and bared her throat to him.

His eyes began to glow faintly red. "I can't take from you…" This was a desperate sob.

"You're not taking, my love. I'm giving. It's different." She stroked his jawline as his eyes went fully red. Would he growl as those in the lobby had? Would he rip her throat?

Instead he kissed her, gently. His lips brushed her chin, her jaw. "I don't deserve you," he murmured. Then he kissed her throat. She forced her shoulders to relax. She stretched her head back, waiting. But he continued to kiss her so softly, so tenderly, that she began to feel the wet between her legs. She remembered yesterday, making love through the sunlight hours, sweet pleasure rolling through her again and again at Davie's touch. And when the twin points of pain finally came, they were all mixed up for her in lovemaking. Davie filled all her senses, even pain. She moaned as he clasped her to his body and sucked rhythmically.

"Ahhh, Davie, Davie," she murmured, and held his head against her throat. The pain was over. All that remained was the sensation of being one with him, possessed. The throb of her heart was meant to push her blood into his mouth. The great artery in her throat was meant to be opened by him. Her hips began to move of their own accord as they rocked together. And then there came a feeling of… distance, as if she were floating away on the tide of their passionate exchange. She relaxed into his arms.

The moment she went limp, he wrenched away with a cry. "Emma, Emma, did I take too much? God, what have I done?"

She looked up at him, sleepy. "No. That was… exciting." She noticed that the wound on his cheek was closed. That brought her up sharply. She shook off her lethargy and examined him, as he hung over her. If she didn't bestir herself it would be too late. But no, the wound on his shoulder was still open and seeping. She raised herself on one elbow and pushed him firmly onto his back. He looked surprised. Then she bent her head, pulled back his tattered shirt, and, taking only one breath for courage, licked his wound.

The taste of his blood was copper, thick. Not unpleasant. She licked again, just to make sure she got enough. The wound closed under her lips.

He gripped her shoulders, his glare fierce. "What have you done?" he cried.

She looked at him calmly, more calmly than her thumping heart might indicate. "I have fulfilled a vow. For better or for worse."

"You don't know!" He sat up. With the strength lent by her blood, his wounds were disappearing quickly. "You'll die without the immunity of a vampire's blood…"

"How lucky that I know a vampire. You won't let the Rules stand in the way of my immunity, will you, Davie?"

"Emma." His eyes filled. "I will likely die tonight, Emma. We can't hold them. Forty we killed tonight and still they come and come. You'll be left alone to die horribly."

"We both could die tonight, Davie. Or any other night. One just can't know the future."

"You don't know what you're in for. You can't."

"Probably neither of us do." She smiled ruefully. "But we'll face it together."

He grabbed her, shook her until she thought her teeth would rattle, and then took her in a fierce embrace. She could hear him trying to suppress the sobs in his chest. There. That was better. "I wanted to protect you."

"Do your best, Davie. I permit you to protect me from anything but you."

"I never wanted this for you."

"And what I want, does that not count? We are a partnership." It was her turn to disengage herself and hold him away from her. "An equal partnership."

"Woman!" he half-laughed, though his cheeks were wet.

"See?" She smiled. "You didn't know what you were getting into with me, either." She sobered as a flaming sensation coursed along her veins. "Mr. Rufford may not be happy over what I've done. And you must wait to give me immunity. You can't be weakened with the odds so great." Suddenly things she hadn't anticipated came rushing in. She felt her eyes go big. Now was not the time for her to become ill and be a burden on him.

He rose and handed her up off the flour sacks, his mouth a grim line. "Just let Rufford try to hinder us. Let us see how he and Fedeyah go on. They didn't have blood tonight."

She followed him, dousing the candle. "They did have blood. I collected a bowlful from that man in the lobby, the one who wasn't vampire. Or what was left of him."

He turned a shocked countenance on her. "You… ?"

"I managed." She didn't tell him she had vomited.

He chuffed a laugh and took her hand. Rufford was sitting at the table in front of the hearth, tucking into a bowl of the stew. Fedeyah was pouring wine. He handed Davie a glass. Their wounds were hardly more than scars.

"Miss Fairfield?" Fedeyah asked, waving a full glass of wine. "You look pale."

"Thank you." She nodded.

"She needs blood, Rufford," Davie said, without preamble. His voice had iron in it.

"I thought she might," Rufford remarked. "Excellent stew, Miss Fairfield. We are not used to such expertise in the kitchen. Or should I call you Mrs. Ware?"

"That can wait until we find a Christian minister," she said, suddenly shy. The room was doing funny things around the edges.

Mr. Rufford peered at her. "Take her upstairs where she can be comfortable, Ware."

"I mean to give her what she needs." Davie said it as a threat, a promise. Emma smiled. He had decided.

"My blood will do the job faster. I'll send up a cup later. Between us we can muster enough to make her way easier than yours was."

"My blood is hers," Fedeyah said from somewhere far away.

Emma felt her knees grow wobbly as the fire in her veins raced up toward her heart. She wanted to thank them, to apologize for being so much trouble… but she couldn't seem to make her mouth work. Then Davie swept her up in his arms. She felt his heart beating against her breast…

Night. Blessed darkness! Moonlight shone in through shutters thrown wide to the night air. She was alive! She touched the wool of a fine red robe she had been wrapped in. She could feel each individual thread in it The scent of jasmine drifted in through the window. How had she never noticed how wonderful jasmine smelled? Joyful life flowed through her veins… she felt… more than she had ever been. Where was Davie? She must tell him how wonderful she felt.

She heard noise in the street below. She threw off the covers. How long had she lain here? She remembered Davie sitting with her, Davie making her drink the thick, sweet copper-flavored blood drained from his wrist or sent up from Rufford and Fedeyah. The pain had been dreadful, but always Davie was there to soothe her…

She leaned out of the window. In the street below, Davie, Rufford, and Fedeyah stood, backs together, sabers drawn, and in a semicircle around them stood what? Fifty? A hundred? Eyes glowed red on both sides. She stifled a cry.

"Strategic retreat, Ware?" Rufford whispered. She heard him clearly, though.

"What use?" Davie answered, iron resolve in his voice.

"Very well. The last stand against chaos starts here." Rufford straightened.

Lord, God, if such as I am now may pray to you, then help them! she thought.

But dash it all, she dared not leave it only to God. Strength rushed through her. She would not again stand by stunned while they fought for their lives as she had in the lobby that first night. She whirled from the window and hurried down the stairs. The lobby had been cleared of corpses. Her bare feet slapped against the cool tile. Over the fireplace in the lobby hung a display of crossed swords. No paltry butcher's knife for her tonight. She climbed on the hearth and stood on tiptoe. If Davie was going to die tonight in some gesture of sacrifice and duty, no matter how futile, then so would she.

She had a moment of doubt as she reached for the heavy weapon. She was only a woman. But she hefted the sword easily. She was that strong! She didn't stop to wonder. The red robe she wore was a native burnoose, richly embroidered at the edges, much better than her English dress for moving about in. She raised her sword and ran for the street. She had no skill with such a weapon. But that was not the point, was it?

The three men standing in a semicircle against the hordes glanced back. Rufford smiled. Fedeyah touched his forehead once. And Davie, about to protest, closed his mouth firmly over whatever he would have said. She took her place beside him.

He looked down at her with such love in his eyes that the thing inside her welled up and shouted gladness. Life seemed to hum in her veins. But there was no time to tell him. Movement made her glance out at their enemies. The wall of red eyes ahead advanced. Who were these men? Why were they here? Only what they wanted was plain. They wanted the four before them dead. Fedeyah and Rufford spread out to give themselves room to swing their swords.

"Decapitation is the only way," Davie whispered, his eyes hard. "It's difficult. Aim for the neck. I'll finish them."

Emma swallowed. Killing people? Had she thought this through? Even such creatures as these? But what choice was there?

At that moment, a heavy man in the center let out a piercing ululation, and the line broke into a melee of bodies as they charged forward. This was it, the doomed last stand against chaos.

Emma hefted the sword with both hands. Davie stepped in front of her, slashing. A body launched itself into the air from the side. Emma held her sword out, frightened. The body was impaled upon it, wrenching it from her grip. She shrieked in horror. But then the creature stood. He slashed at her. A cut opened on her shoulder. She gripped the hilt of her sword where it protruded from the creature's breast and pulled. Davie slashed at the vampire's neck. She didn't think anything happened, but the creature fell back. She pulled her sword back with both hands and slashed at the neck of an oncoming boy, even as horror shrieked inside her. The blade thunked against something. A horrible cut opened up, but the boy raised his sword. Davie cut at three others now descending. Shadows cascaded behind them. There were too many. Rufford fought like a slashing demon. Too many!

In the center of the melee, whirling darkness spread, obscuring even the closest of figures. Emma just pushed the young boy vampire with the glowing eyes and blood spurting from the cut she'd made back into the crowd. The darkness was everywhere, in among them. Had she not seen that strange kind of darkness before? A cutlass found Davie, and another vampire was twisting Davie's head. Emma slashed at those arms furiously. The attacker fell away, howling. A hand grasped her shoulder. She turned. Another young man hardly out of his teens hissed at her, brandishing a knife. She pulled away.

Time slowed as combatants on both sides took in a new reality. The darkness was seeping into the earth, it seemed. And taking its place, standing among the attackers, still like statues, were perhaps twenty men and women, some dressed as monks, some in rich garb from many nations. The stillness lasted but a moment. They began to move almost faster than the eye could comprehend, rending, slashing at the hordes. And their eyes glowed red.

"How did you hold out?" a tall man with luxuriant mustachios asked. Emma sat in a corner just behind Ian Rufford, hoping not to be noticed. The power careening around the room was intimidating. Energy vibrated in different notes and tones. Davie had taken several of the newcomers upstairs to bathe and dress, but perhaps fifteen of the victorious were arrayed around the grand dining room in various states of dishevelment. Wounds were healed and now a cold collation and the hotel cellar's finest vintages were being consumed with relish by monks and noblemen alike. "Must have been the blood of the Old One that runs in your veins."

"We would not have held through tonight if you had not come." Rufford frowned into the dregs at the bottom of his glass.

Emma recognized the stunning woman with hair like banked coals who poured Rufford another glass of wine. Beatrix Lisse, Countess of Lente and toast of London's male society. It was disconcerting, no, stunning to discover that she had been vampire all along.

"Why so anxious, Rufford?" the Countess asked. "Asharti's army is broken."

"Here," he growled. "But there is still Tripoli."

"Ahhh," she said in recognition. "John sent word. Tripoli is secured. Your Beth is fine."

Rufford relaxed.

"We expected two of you. Yet we find four," the Countess observed, glancing at Emma.

Davie's new kind might not be welcoming to newly made vampires, since they had just spent some effort to eradicate an army of them. Emma tried to think what to do about that, but she was having trouble concentrating on the talk around her. Thoughts of Davie kept creeping into her mind and down lower to the point between her legs. The flood of life that coursed through her veins seemed to conjure thoughts of Davie, naked and needing. She wished he would return. But maybe that would only make it worse.

"Ironic, isn't it, Beatrix?" Rufford asked, twirling his glass. "Four made vampires, two actually by Asharti, were the only thing standing between Asharti's army and success." He said to Emma confidentially, "The Countess was my instructor in the ways of being vampire." Then he turned back to Beatrix Lisse. "You didn't mind using made vampires when it was the only chance you had to kill Asharti, did you?"

"Point taken," she conceded.

"And I called for Ware. He came, knowing exactly what he was up against. He kept us provisioned and provided logistics for nearly two months."

"Courageous fellow." There was still a tone of reserve in her voice. Emma could see that several of the others were listening.

"He got infected saving my life, Beatrix," Rufford said, his voice hard. "I couldn't let him die, any more than Fedeyah could let me die."

"And you?" the Countess asked Emma, with sweetness that Emma knew masked dangerous power. "What brought you all the way from England to a place like Casablanca?"

Emma lifted her chin. "I came to help Major Ware."

"She and I were betrothed." Davie came down the main staircase, himself washed and dressed. The coat didn't fit him exactly. It was probably "borrowed" from one of the departed hotel guests. But to her he had never looked better, more English, more hers. Now she recognized the vibrating intensity the Companion gave. The fact that Davie had just lied to save her face was dear. "She sacrificed as much as anyone for this cause. I made her vampire. Blame me."

Emma stood. She couldn't let Davie take responsibility for this. This was on her head. "No, he didn't, Countess. I couldn't gather enough human blood for all three of them. So I gave him my blood." Davie came to put his arm around her. She smiled at him, getting courage from his straight back. He was proud of her. She turned to the Countess. "And then I licked his wounds. I couldn't let his condition stand between us. In short, I did it for love. And you won't understand that, but it's the truth."

The Countess glanced to Rufford, uncertain.

"True," he remarked. "Of course you've never made anyone for love. John Staunton, Earl of Langley, for instance. Why, I'll wager he's always been vampire—"

Beatrix Lisse threw up her hands. "Ahhh! I can't police true love. The Elders must grow used to it." She poured wine into her own glass, frowning. "These outposts never have champagne…"

Davie sat next to Emma. The others began planning to spread across the city to be certain the stragglers from Asharti's army were no more. Davie took Emma's hand. It sent what must be the same electric shocks through her body as it had in the breakfast room of Fairfield House, but now they seemed magnified a thousand times.

"You are under no obligation, Emma," Davie murmured. He glanced down at their joined hands, unable to meet her eyes. "I know the Companion in your blood must seem a… a violation. If you want to cry off…"

"A violation?" She drew her brows together. Did that mean he was the one who wanted to cry off now that together might mean forever? Should she free him from his vow and let him have time to decide?

No, dash it all! What good was being a rebel if you couldn't tell the truth and demand truth in return and damn the consequences? She'd know how he felt for certain if she could look into his eyes. Diplomat or no, he wouldn't be able to hide how he felt about her. That was why he wouldn't look at her, because he knew his eyes left him vulnerable. She lifted his chin.

What she saw in his eyes was so complex she needed a moment to interpret it. He had put up a wall. He thought he was making his eyes calm and flat. But underneath was such longing that no wall could hide it.

She smiled. "Can you call the life we feel, this sensation of wholeness, a violation? I call it a gift."

"The gift comes with a few drawbacks," he managed, swallowing.

She smiled and gave a tiny shrug. "So does life."

He cleared his throat. "Does… does that mean… ?"

"It means I have no intention of releasing you from your promise, Davie Ware. It means I want to know what all this sensation flooding me will feel like in bed naked with you, with your lips on my body and your cock between my thighs. I have been unable to think of almost anything else for the last hour. Am I making myself clear enough here?"

He flushed and laughed, whether in embarrassment at her language or in sympathy with her wishes she'd wager even he wasn't sure. They noticed the silence around them at the same time. They turned their heads.

The others in the room were staring at them, some with frank amusement in their eyes. Emma felt her rebellion dissolve into a fiery blush.

Davie stood, squeezing her hand for reassurance. "I… I crave a boon," he announced to everyone and no one.

"We are leaving you alive," the gaunt vampire with the mustachios noted.

"Once I would not have counted that a boon," Davie said. He looked down at Emma and his eyes were soft. Then he glanced to Rufford. "I release you from your vow, you know."

"Thought you would," Rufford said wryly. "I'm glad my services will not be needed."

"Yes… well," Davie continued, surveying the room. "I was wondering if any of you monks from Mirso Monastery are… are priests or… or capable of performing marriage rites. Miss Fairfield and I have recited the vows… unofficially, but we'd like to consecrate them."

A small man in a simple black woolen robe stood. "You could call us experts in Vows. I'll perform your rites."

"Brother Flavio, would the Elders approve? The Rules dictate that we live one to a city. That doesn't allow for marriage." The mustachioed vampire frowned.

Brother Flavio cocked his head. "I wonder if that Rule is the reason no children are born, Delanus. These two are new enough that they might get precious children." He looked from Rufford to the Countess and back to Emma and Davie. "We have several pairings represented here. I don't think they mean to live one to a city." He approached Davie and Emma. He had to look up into Davie's face. He searched it for what seemed a long time and then turned his attention to Emma. She couldn't help but flush, but she held her head high and looked him straight in the eye.

"Kneel," he said.

Davie grabbed a cushion from one of the chairs for her knees and knelt beside her. He fairly glowed. And she knew that before she had crossed her line she had only been half-alive. Her spirit was strong now and she wanted Davie in a spiritual way that was much larger than she could have imagined before and in a profane way as well.

Brother Flavio motioned to Rufford and the Countess, who came to range themselves on either side. "You two shall witness, who have gone before."

"Your blood calls, one to the other, life to life," Brother Flavio intoned. "Will you answer her blood, Major Ware?"

"I will," Davie said firmly in that baritone rumble she loved so.

"His blood calls to your blood, Miss Fairfield. Will you answer?"

"I will," she said, thinking how far the drawing rooms of England were behind her now.

"Then for all the years there are, the Companion will sing inside you, one to the other."

It was like a singing, a humming vibration of energy deep in her veins that sang to her.

"You are now joined."

Applause broke out around the circle that had gathered. Whistles sounded. "Here, here!" and, "A toast!" "Ware, you dog, kiss her!"

Davie leaned down. His eyes glowed, not red but blue. "Forever," he murmured, and just brushed her lips.

"Forever," she whispered, and pulled his head down to kiss him thoroughly. Sensations flooded her that could not be described but hinted that a lifetime of trying might be worthwhile.

"Whoa, boy!" Rufford chortled, patting Davie on the back. "Get thee upstairs for that sort of thing. My virgin eyes are seared with such displays of passion."

Davie got up and pulled Emma up beside him. He tucked her into his side. She fit well there, and the warmth of his body made her blood rise. "As you will." He nodded crisply and pulled Emma toward the stairs. At the bottom, he paused. "Consider my duty discharged, Rufford. This is no place for my wife. You'll have to clean up the remains here yourself."

Davie had given over duty for her sake. It was the final gift that he could give her. Emma saw Rufford grin. "I recommend the New World," he said. "Plenty of room there."

The sun was rising outside. She knew it even though the draperies of their room were pulled shut and the shutters latched against it. The world already seemed new. They had the whole day ahead of them for loving.

A forever of days.