Chapter One

Ravensmuir, on the east coast of Scotland

Elizabeth had watched the Fae gather for Midsummer’s Eve and hasten toward the sister keep of Ravensmuir. She did not trust their actions a whit, and knew she had to go to Ravensmuir to discover the truth. Alexander had changed his thinking about escorting her there once a company of mercenaries traveled toward Malcolm’s keep, so Elizabeth had stolen out of Kinfairlie this very morning, with her beloved mare, Demoiselle.

To her surprise, she had met the Earl of Douglas on the road at such an early hour, with his niece Jeanne and a company of men escorting them. Jeanne was richly dressed, as if she meant to attend a coronation, though there was no other destination on the road than Ravensmuir.

Elizabeth recalled the earl’s insistence that Malcolm was betrothed to his niece, this Jeanne, and bit her lip. She had heard just days before that Malcolm had taken a bride. All of Kinfairlie was aflutter that Malcolm had wedded the serving maid Catriona, seemingly on impulse, naming the son she had delivered in Ravensmuir as his heir.

Evidently her companions had not yet heard the news, and Elizabeth would not be the one to enlighten them.

They rode in comparative silence, none of them evidently welcoming questions about their plans. Perhaps it was the hour, but Elizabeth was content to be silent.

When the new tower of Ravensmuir came more clearly into view, she could not help but gasp aloud.

“Zounds,” the earl muttered beneath his breath. “What a fortification!”

Jeanne straightened in her saddle with evident interest.

Elizabeth surveyed the new structure with awe. Ravensmuir’s new keep resembled the lost one in many ways, but was more formidable. While the old keep had been forbidding, perched on the coast like a bird of prey, this one was tall and bold, taking a resolute stance. It reminded Elizabeth of a knight staring down a foe, fairly daring his opponent to strike.

Certainly, this keep would not be readily assailed. Her brother Malcolm had left Scotland to seek his fortune shortly after inheriting the holding of Ravensmuir, shortly after the old keep fell to ruins. He had earned the disapproval of his older brother, Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, by selling his blade. It was clear, though, that Malcolm had learned much of defending what he would call his own in his years as a mercenary.

The morning sunlight turned the stone of the high tower to a golden yet rosy hue. The walls were tall and smooth, and a gatehouse had been built to bar the opening in the middle of the old thorn hedge that Elizabeth remembered from childhood. That hedge, planted in a protective arc behind the moat, stopped short of the rocky cliffs at either end. The road was blocked where it passed through the hedge by this gatehouse and its portcullis. The hedge had also grown taller and thicker since last she had visited. Even the gaps at the ends of the hedge, once wide enough that a person could have ridden a horse around the barrier, seemed more narrow than they had been. Elizabeth saw men moving stones there, making the way even more precarious.

The road ran straight toward that gatehouse, as always it had, and across the barren moor. This ensured that none could approach the keep without the laird or his sentry knowing of it. The moor outside the hedge was beaten down more than usual, and Elizabeth could see the mark of many fire pits on the land. There were half a dozen tents there yet, although they were being struck, and the single fire smoked as if it was being extinguished. This must have been where the masons who had rebuilt Ravensmuir had camped. Most, it was clear, were gone, and these men would be departed soon.

“It might be a vision,” the earl muttered beneath his breath, clearly surprised by the sight of the new keep. “It might have been built by a sorcerer, to have grown so high and strong in so little time.”

Jeanne, her red hair blowing in the breeze, smiled in obvious anticipation. “The laird is rich,” she declared with satisfaction. “For no man could order such a construction otherwise.”

“A fine new keep,” the earl noted with satisfaction. “It will suit you most well to be lady here, my dear.”

“Indeed, uncle,” Jeanne agreed. “I have always believed it my fate to wed a rich man.” She granted Elizabeth another cool smile. “Perhaps I shall drink sweet mead from a golden cup at Ravensmuir.” She laughed then, well pleased with the life she believed she rode to claim.

Elizabeth did not comment again, although she was sorely tempted. Jeanne, in her opinion, had been indulged in every possible way for every day of her life. She was pretty and could be pleasant enough when all went according to her plan, but Elizabeth had seen her denied a sweet when they had both been small, and she would never forget the fury of the other noblewoman’s tantrum.

What would Jeanne do when she met Catriona?

What would she do if Malcolm denied her?

A wicked part of Elizabeth looked forward to the other woman’s first sight of Malcolm’s new wife.

Indeed, Jeanne had been waspish when Elizabeth encountered them on the road, noting how Elizabeth’s beauty had faded, like that of a rose touched by the frost. It had been unkind of her to say as much aloud, and even the earl had frowned, though Elizabeth knew it to be true.

One day, beauteous Elizabeth, you will come to me. I already grow impatient.

Even in the morning sunlight, the murmured pledge of Finvarra, King of the Fae, made Elizabeth shiver. Indeed, it seemed she could not forget the words, for they echoed in her thoughts repeatedly. Perhaps he had cast some spell that devoured every other notion she might have had, the better to ensure she was haunted by his pledge.

Of all her kin, Elizabeth Lammergeier was the only one who could see the Fae, and so, she was the sole one who spoke with Finvarra, the King of the Fae.

She had wished repeatedly that the gift would abandon her, but to no avail. Even now, the gathering of small Fae, all scampering, flying and racing toward Ravensmuir, was disconcerting, though her companions were oblivious to it. Elizabeth kept her gaze upon her gloved hands, the better to ensure she did not react to the Fae.

She became aware of another horse riding alongside her and assumed it one of the men in the party. She glanced his way and started to find herself confronting Finvarra, King of the Fae, on a steed of deepest pewter.

She might have summoned him with her thoughts, though Elizabeth doubted she had any such power over him.

“Come to visit your brother one last time?” Finvarra asked, his dark eyes gleaming.

Elizabeth caught her breath and averted her gaze, knowing the folly of staring into the depths of his eyes. Jeanne and the earl were unaware that the Fae king rode alongside their party.

Finvarra dropped his voice low. “Or dare I hope you come to me?”

Elizabeth shook her head, even as niece and uncle admired Ravensmuir’s proportions.

“Seven years have passed since we paid the tithe to Hell, and it comes due again at Midsummer’s Eve,” Finvarra informed her. “The Laird of Ravensmuir, his soul as black as a raven’s plume, will be our offering.”

“Nay!” Elizabeth protested, unable to keep silent. Her mortal companions glanced at her with concern. “He has built a gatehouse too close to the hedge,” she said, fabricating a reason for her outburst. “I always liked it without one.”

“A maiden’s whimsy,” the earl said with a shake of his head. “It would hardly be sufficient defense and a prize worth the having must be defended.” He patted his niece’s hand, clearly meaning her and not the keep.

“Malcolm volunteered to take his comrade’s place,” Finvarra whispered, stroking his beard as he eyed her with confidence that all should be as he decreed. “He gave his word, and it cannot be broken now.”

Elizabeth clutched Demoiselle’s reins, knowing she could not let this be.

Finvarra stroked her hand and Elizabeth hastily pulled it away. “You could offer yourself in his stead,” he suggested.

Nay, she would not do that. She did not trust the king of the Fae. Likely he would seize them both. She shook her head again, refusing to look into his dark eyes.

This explained why she had seen the Fae converging upon Ravensmuir. They gathered to collect and then surrender their tithe.

Which would be Malcolm, newly home and with a new bride.

Finvarra smiled with infuriating calm. “Until we meet again, my Elizabeth,” he murmured, the words making Elizabeth shiver. His figure and his horse shimmered before both disappeared. Elizabeth watched the stardust fall to the ground, glitter one last time, then fade away completely.

What could she do to help Malcolm?

* * *

The portcullis was barred against the arriving party, a fact that the earl did not find pleasing.

To make matters worse, Malcolm also did not hasten to admit them to Ravensmuir’s bailey. Elizabeth could see a man who must be her brother near the portal to the hall and he spoke to several of the men before sauntering toward the gatehouse. He was too far away for her to see him clearly, but his tabard was the only one that bore the insignia of Ravensmuir. The earl also seemed to recognize Malcolm for his face grew more ruddy as he stared at the approaching warrior. The earl fairly stamped his feet in his stirrups and Jeanne’s lips pinched tightly.

By their manner, one would think they controlled Malcolm’s holding already.

“It will not be thus when I am lady, Uncle,” Jeanne said in an undertone to the earl. “You can rely upon a warm greeting then.”

“Of course, my dear,” the earl replied. Elizabeth noted that he was particularly avid and scanning the men inside the walls with great interest.

Was it because they were mercenaries? Or did he count their numbers? Elizabeth had never seen so many warriors at close proximity and she was aware that more than one masculine glance lingered upon her.

At least upon her cursedly full breasts.

She felt her color rise a little, though such attention did not usually fluster her as once it had. It was the warriors and their manner, as well as her conviction that men such as these took whatsoever they coveted, without apology, seeing to their own desires above all others.

Strangely enough, she was suddenly glad to be in the earl’s party and not arriving at Ravensmuir alone. It was odd to credit Alexander’s doubts, but she saw that he had spoken sense in this matter.

The man wearing Ravensmuir’s colors came to stand behind the portcullis, his arms folded across his chest as he assessed the newly arrived party. Elizabeth recognized the brother she recalled in his features, though he was an older and more grim Malcolm than she had known. His eyes were narrowed and he was deeply tanned, not to mention that his manner was less than welcoming. Could this hardened warrior truly be the brother who had teased Elizabeth and her sisters so mercilessly all those years ago?

The shadow of death was dark upon him, that much was evident to Elizabeth, so his end must be near. She thought of Finvarra’s words and shuddered. What had Malcolm done that could make his soul fit to be a tithe to Hell? Why would he volunteer to take the place of another when he had so much advantage to his hand?

“Malcolm!” the earl declared, his manner so fulsome that Elizabeth distrusted him. “What cause have you to bar the gates? It will be most inconvenient for your masons.”

“The last of them pack their goods at this point, and they have little need to access the bailey,” Malcolm said, no hint of emotion in his tone, much less that of welcome. “And we have had some trouble these past days.”

“Trouble?” the earl asked. Elizabeth would have wagered he knew of it already.

“Aye, an intruder in the hall,” Malcolm arched a brow. “But it is of no matter. I bid you welcome, Sir Archibald.” He nodded to someone out of view and the portcullis began to rise. It did not creak, as the portcullis at old Ravensmuir had done, but rose smoothly and silently.

Elizabeth noted that it was the same doughty grill of iron she remembered, with the same fierce points on its base, but previously it had been installed at the entry to the keep itself. Malcolm must have salvaged it from the ruins. She looked at the gatehouse as they rode through its portal, wondering how much else had been retrieved from the destroyed keep. She felt a flicker of excitement to see what Malcolm had done.

The Fae were thick on every side in the bailey, though she strove to ignore their presence. It did no good to reveal awareness of them as a mortal, but Elizabeth was shocked by their numbers and variety. Were all the Fae in Scotland gathered at Ravensmuir?

This tithe that Finvarra said would be paid on Midsummer’s Eve must be of great import to them. Even Finvarra himself should be at his own court at Knockma in Ireland, not in Scotland. She doubted that the Elphine Queen was pleased to have a visiting monarch, and one inclined to take charge, linger in her court so long.

“Elizabeth!” Malcolm said as she rode through the gates and a smile touched his lips for the first time. He took the reins of Demoiselle, scratching the mare’s nose with a familiarity that reassured Elizabeth, and led the steed to Ravensmuir’s portal. Demoiselle nuzzled his hair, as she had before his absence, and it seemed the mare did not see any change of import in Malcolm. Jeanne clicked her tongue in disapproval that Malcolm did not so tend her, and the earl counseled her to be silent with a gesture.

The earl and his party trailed behind Elizabeth and Malcolm, but still she heard the earl’s sudden intake of breath. And no wonder, for Ravensmuir’s bailey was filled with fighting men, all armed, all watching intently. Elizabeth did not doubt that if a man in the earl’s party made a move against Malcolm, the offender would be dead in a heartbeat. There was a tension in Ravensmuir’s bailey, as well. Was this the nature of these men all the time? Or had the discovery of the intruder made them so wary? It seemed to agitate the Fae, who moved quickly on all sides.

Before the portal to the hall itself, Malcolm reached up to grip Elizabeth’s waist and lift her from the saddle. They eyed each other when her feet touched the ground, snared in a sudden awkwardness. Elizabeth did not know what to do. Malcolm was so different, a man now, not a boy, and one accustomed to earning his way with his sword. The death she saw in him was disconcerting, to say the least, and she knew that Finvarra had told her no lie. It was impossible that she should throw her arms around this stern warrior and welcome him home, as she would have done once before.

There was a glint in Malcolm’s eyes, though, a hint that he saw her doubts. “You have grown taller,” he said, an affection in his tone that made her smile.

“You look more like a warrior,” she dared to counter.

Malcolm’s lips quirked even as his eyes sparkled with familiar humor. “And you have learned some tact. Well done, sister mine.”

Elizabeth laughed, unable to help herself. When he teased her, she could see the brother she had known so well. In her younger days, Elizabeth had been known for speaking her mind and had oft been in trouble for it. Malcolm had oft been in trouble, too, making mischief, although truly he had never been able to compete with Alexander as a prankster. Malcolm kissed her brow and Elizabeth did embrace him briefly then, for she recognized the brother she loved behind this stern guise and was glad of his return.

Could she do anything to help him to survive Midsummer’s Eve?

“Are you truly wed already?” she whispered and Malcolm pulled back to consider the earl. His eyes narrowed again as two of the earl’s party were dispatched, the pair of horses breaking into a gallop as soon as they had passed through the gatehouse.

“What is amiss?” Elizabeth asked quietly, seeing a quickening in Malcolm’s manner.

“Do not ask and do not look beside the gatehouse,” he advised.

Elizabeth frowned and might have argued but his gaze became intense and she understood she should remain silent. She saw the shadow of death grow more resolute upon her brother’s brow, the sight making her spirit quail that he would be lost, just when it seemed every reward was his to claim.

Since Finvarra, the King of the Fae, had declared his intent to claim Elizabeth, she had also been able to see death in the mortal realm. No doubt Finvarra had inflicted this curse upon her to make the mortal realm less appealing than his own, but certainly, the illusion had prompted Elizabeth to decline many potential suitors. More than once, she had met a man and known at a glance that he would be dead and gone within the year. She saw death in a gruesome way, as if those around her had arisen from their graves. It was a glamour of Finvarra’s, and Elizabeth knew it, but still she could not shake its power. The sight of rotten flesh hanging from the bones of those who were soon to die had a tendency to influence her behavior at court gatherings and festivities. The smell of festering corpses rising from the man who shared her trencher affected her appetite at the board. Over recent years, Elizabeth had gained a reputation as both a strange maiden and one easily displeased by a man’s attentions.

That death shadowed Malcolm was unacceptable. Elizabeth had to save her brother from Finvarra’s cruel harvest. What of the comrade Malcolm replaced? Could she compel that man to take his rightful place again? There must be some honor between fighting men!

“Such folly comes to us with age,” the earl cried heartily. “I have a gift for you, Malcolm, but left it at my own abode. My runners shall fetch it.”

Jeanne’s features were pale and her lips so tight that they nigh disappeared.

“It must be a gift of considerable size,” Elizabeth murmured.

Malcolm dropped his voice low. “If it exists in truth. Does he suspect that I am wedded?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I said naught, though Eleanor and Vivienne confided as much when they returned to Kinfairlie.”

Malcolm nodded minutely and she guessed that he was glad of this. His gaze met hers again and his smile turned wry. “And I will wager that Alexander does not approve, as he does not approve of any deed I have done since inheriting Ravensmuir.”

Elizabeth saw that Malcolm was vexed by Alexander’s disapproval. She might have said something but in that moment she saw the ribbon that unfurled from the man her brother had become. It was the pale green of the sea and edged with silver. She followed its course to find it knotted to another ribbon of deepest amethyst edged in gold. The way the ribbons entwined told Elizabeth that her brother had wed well and for love, even if the match was unconventional.

The sight gave her great relief, and she was glad once again of her ability to see these Fae signals. It also renewed her resolve to see Malcolm saved.

“He will,” she said with confidence. “For he will see the love between you.”

Malcolm touched her cheek and she was aware of the roughness of his finger. “You have more faith in that than I do, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “But we shall see soon enough. Come and meet my wife, Catriona. She may have need of your strength on this day.”

“Might I meet your companion?” she asked, trying to sound only mildly interested. “The one who traveled home with you? He had the name of one of the archangels, I believe.” She frowned, trying to recall.

“Rafael,” Malcolm supplied. “Aye, you can meet him, at least under my watchful eye.”

“You do not trust your friend?”

“We have been comrades, Elizabeth, in a harsh trade. It is not the same as friendship.”

Elizabeth wagered that was true enough, given the situation her brother was in, but held her tongue. Could she convince a hardened mercenary to step forward and do what was right?

She could certainly try.

Malcolm did not seem to notice her sudden silence. He raised his voice to call to the earl. “Pray come into the hall, Sir Archibald. Though it is early, your ride has been long. I would invite you to refresh yourself.” He returned to take Jeanne’s hand, kissing its back and leading both women into the hall. Jeanne fairly preened at his attention and Elizabeth bit back a smile.

It was petty of her, but Jeanne had been so unpleasant for so long that it would be sweet to witness that maiden’s disappointment.

And sweeter yet to know that they would never be kin.

* * *

An angel had set foot on the earth.

The sight struck Rafael in the heart he had forgotten he possessed, a blow as piercing and sharp as that from an arrow.

He knew she could not truly be divine, but Rafael could conceive of no other explanation for the beauty who approached with Malcolm. She was looking up at Malcolm, as yet unaware of Rafael, which gave him time to stare.

Rafael had never believed that angels were beings of perfect beauty. He had always assumed that having witnessed both good and evil would leave a mark upon them, and this angel looked haunted by a sorrow that had scorched her soul. The combination of beauty and devastation was more alluring to him than he could have believed possible.

It made him think they had seen much of the same in this world.

He wondered whether she had come to judge him, or to smite him. He suspected that no judgment of his soul would be favorable, but did not shirk from the knowledge of all he had done.

He had survived and that had some value.

The strange thing was that even though he expected this woman would scorn him, he did not want to avoid her. She moved so smoothly across the ground that she seemed to float above it, and he was certain a creature so lovely could not tread upon the earth like any other mortal. She wore a kirtle of crimson as red as blood, its hems embroidered with the gold of the sun. A silver circlet graced her brow, her ebony hair bound beneath a veil of finest gold. Her skin was as fair as ivory and Rafael stared, like a man struck to a pillar of salt for daring to gaze upon such magnificence.

To his surprise, Malcolm escorted her directly to Rafael. Only in his comrade’s hall could he be in any proximity to such a maiden, clearly nobly born and yet unwed. He knew she was no angel in truth and feared she was the one Malcolm had sworn to marry. Rafael did not want to see this angel weep in disappointment to learn that Malcolm was already wed.

Oddly, her presence made him recall the accusation of Malcolm’s wife, Catriona. She had charged him with being a poor comrade and a poor friend for letting Malcolm take his place and pay his debt to the Fae. Theirs was a fair exchange, and Rafael knew it well, a bargain that repaid the debt Malcolm owed to him. But as he watched this angelic being approach, Rafael could not evade the truth of Catriona’s words. It was the mark of angels to shine light upon the deeds of men, to not shirk from the acknowledgment of the truth, no matter how unsavory it might be.

Catriona was right: no man of merit would let another die for him. No man who called himself a friend would let that man take a blow for him.

Yet he and Malcolm were partners in arms, comrades, not friends.

“Malcolm, you must not keep your oath,” she whispered, her voice as sweet as the honey of Rafael’s homeland. Her eyes were a clear green, he saw, a green as clear as the ocean’s curl, and her lips both full and rosy. Her words were so close an echo to Rafael’s own thoughts that he was startled. “They cannot claim your soul!”

Malcolm glanced quickly down at her, as if he would silence her, then gestured to Rafael. “Elizabeth, this is my comrade, Rafael Rodriguez. Rafael, my sister, Elizabeth.”

Rafael nigh swooned with relief that she was not the earl’s niece, Jeanne. He bowed low, not daring to touch her hand or step closer. He knew his place in the court of a nobleman—and actually his place was not in that court at all. It was in the stables or the bailey or the armory. They exchanged polite greetings.

“Where is Catriona?” Malcolm asked him.

“She tends to Avery,” Rafael confessed, referring to the babe that Catriona had delivered just days before, and who now was Malcolm’s heir.

When her brother glanced toward the solar, Elizabeth looked fully upon Rafael for the first time. He had braced himself for her disapproval, but her gaze brightened with an awareness that made his own heart leap. She glanced over him and flushed slightly, as if she liked what she saw of him. Rafael dared to be encouraged that she might not condemn him with a glance.

She was even more beautiful at close proximity, and he admired how fearless she was in meeting his gaze after her survey. She was not a fool, for he knew she recognized what he was. Her gaze hardened then as she surveyed him, her disapproval so clear that he wondered whether he had imagined that glimpse of admiration.

She might not be an angel, but she had the audacity of one, which Rafael liked well enough.

“Would you escort my sister to the board while I make Lady Jeanne and the earl welcome?” Malcolm asked and Rafael could only comply dumbly.

The weight of Elizabeth’s hand on his arm was like a feather, her touch as cool as a river. He felt the curve of her breast brush against his arm and was aware of no other soul in the hall. She held her head high and did not look directly at him. Rafael caught the scent of her perfume and all within him clenched tightly.

It was not simple lust that fired his blood, though. He was smitten with no more than a glance, just as his hero Mìo Cid had been. For the moment, he simply savored the mingled sensations of desire, admiration and a keen awareness of the lady, for he expected only trouble from the choice of his errant heart.

Lady Elizabeth was Malcolm’s sister, which made her a noblewoman, and no man of property—even Malcolm—would let a man such as Rafael court his sister. It was a strange twist of fortune that allowed him to escort her as he did in this moment, and Rafael was a clever enough man to know that it might never happen again.

This might be the closest he ever stood to her.

This might be the sole time she ever touched him.

He savored every single step. She might speak to him. That would be the sum of it. At best, he might catch a glimpse of her again. Their paths could never be tangled, much less joined. He would never touch her more than he did in this moment—and for the first time ever, Rafael regretted what he had become.

He had had no choice, to his thinking, but still.

“Are you the one my brother replaces on Midsummer’s Eve?” Elizabeth asked just before they reached the high table. Her dislike of the notion was more than clear, and again he admired that she was so undaunted. Her gaze locked with his, her disappointment in him evident.

One censorious glance from this maiden and all his life seemed to fall short of the measure, a measure Rafael had not guessed held merit for him. All this she had kindled within him with a look and a single question. He should have been terrified that a virtual stranger could have such power over him.

Still Rafael welcomed the fact she had any curiosity about him. Confirming her guess could only show him poorly in her view, yet she would not have asked if she had been one to avoid the truth. In this moment, he felt ashamed of his own weakness and could not meet her gaze.

“I am,” Rafael confessed with reluctance, then continued with a rare honesty, “for he is a better man than I.”

If he had expected her to argue his merit, Rafael was doomed to be disappointed.

“Indeed,” she said, though her condemnation was less scathing than he had expected.

Did she see that there was hope for him? It was an unexpected and compelling notion. Rafael dared to meet her gaze and his heart skipped that the lady did not turn away from him.

Yet.

Her words were low, but ardently spoken, her clear gaze locked on his own with a resolve that made his heart pound. “I understand that when a man is given a chance, he is a fool not to seize it.”

Rafael was shocked that she fairly dared him to do differently. Elizabeth watched him closely, even as she challenged him to change his ways, then she lifted her chin and turned away, taking her place at the board.

It was unthinkable that Rafael should trade places again with Malcolm, that he should decline Malcolm’s offer and put that man back in his debt. It was neither reasonable nor fair to break a wager willingly made, but Elizabeth’s manner made Rafael feel a new guilt about the bargain he had struck.

How remarkable that a maiden like this, one who should have shunned him on sight, was the one who saw there was promise in him. How like an angel to peer into the secret heart of a man and find a glimmer of light. Suddenly, the land Rafael had come to despise showed such uncommon appeal that he doubted he would leave Scotland any time soon.

No matter how much it snowed, no matter how cold the winters at Ravensmuir, it was worth enduring any physical discomfort to linger near a maiden such as Elizabeth.

Indeed, she might take pity upon his condemned soul.

* * *

Rafael Rodriguez.

There was a name to light a flame in the heart of a woman devoid of sense, and truly, Malcolm’s comrade was a man who might steal that heart with a simmering glance. Elizabeth had never met the like of him. He was dangerous and dashing, so vital and virile that he made the men of her former acquaintance look like mere boys, regardless of their ages. The way Rafael smiled, as if he knew a potent secret or as if he might tempt her to partake of forbidden pleasures, made Elizabeth flush with awareness even though she knew his truth. He was dangerous and certainly wicked, a man who had undoubtedly despoiled many a maiden and broken many a heart.

Then carried on his way, without remorse.

How could a man who sold his blade be possessed of any remorse? Nay, this was a man who took what he desired, perhaps even savored it, then sought a new fleeting pleasure to satisfy him. He would be callous and reckless and readily bored, and certainly not one upon whom a lady should rely.

Unless, of course, she wanted her keep defended and could pay the price.

Elizabeth was sure Rafael’s price would be high.

She bit her lip and wondered what it was like to be despoiled.

Then she wondered whether she would ever know the truth of it, or whether Finvarra would seize her before she could experience the pleasure that man and wife could share.

She caught herself, realizing that even a brief encounter with a man who could not possess any morals had put dangerous notions into her thoughts.

Indeed, Elizabeth had not believed her own audacity when she challenged Rafael to be a better man. She had scarce recognized herself, but knew she had done as much for Malcolm’s sake. There was little time to be demure about the matter. She had been surprised that Rafael had not replied sharply that she tend to her own business. Instead, this fearsome man had given her an assessing glance, as if he could assess her merit with ease. His look had sent a shiver through her.

Followed by a dangerous and beguiling heat.

Oh, that heat was seductive. It hinted of all the matters Elizabeth yearned to learn, of the reason why Alexander and Eleanor were so quick to retire to their chamber on winter nights, of the sly smiles she saw her sisters grant to their wedded spouses. It was the reason her mind turned to such temptations.

Or he was the cause of that. Elizabeth had never seen a man more likely to live a life of adventure and romance, a man destined to travel far and wide, to make what he would of his life. He could have been the hero in an old tale, stronger, bolder, more reckless and handsome than any of his fellows—and destined to win every prize. Elizabeth wished she could have been immune to Rafael’s allure, but evidently she was woman enough to still feel a thrill in his presence.

Was it because he could read her thoughts? Was it because he obviously had expertise in the art she wanted to experience? Elizabeth was certain Rafael knew every nuance of how a man and woman might love. She was certain he would welcome the opportunity to demonstrate them all to her.

Even knowing it would be folly to invite his interest, Elizabeth wondered how a single kiss from Rafael would taste.

She did not doubt that it would change her view of kisses for all the rest of her days. Indeed, she doubted that any reputable man’s embrace would stand the comparison.

She would not dare to ask for such a token. Indeed, such curiosity could only lead her to woe. Nay, she had to convince Rafael to make a different choice, and that he had even considered her challenge for a heartbeat had been more of a victory than she had expected.

This was the man who should die in Malcolm’s place.

It would only be just.

Elizabeth studied Rafael, telling herself that she merely sought the means to awaken his sense of honor. That she was not certain he possessed one meant—she assured herself—that he required closer scrutiny.

It certainly was not hard to look upon him.

That Rafael was a mercenary was clear. He was as tall and muscled as Malcolm, both a sword and a dagger hanging from scabbards on his belt. There was a quiet ferocity about him, as well, and she knew he was keenly aware of his surroundings. Indeed, he looked like a man who would miss no detail, as well as one who could kill with his bare hands.

He was garbed in black, not a speck of ornamentation on his garb. His chausses were black leather, simply cut and plain. His boots were tall and wrought of black leather, so similar to his chausses that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Elizabeth also had no doubt that his legs were muscled and flushed a little to catch herself admiring them. On this day, he wore a white chemise of linen, the lace open at his neck to reveal both his golden tan and a tangle of dark hair upon his chest. His tabard was also black and fell to the top of his thighs, and he wore black gloves.

His eyes were darker than a midnight sky and his hair was as black as ebony. It possessed an unruly curl and glinted in the light. His skin was tanned to a deeper gold than that of Malcolm, so rich a hue that it must have been darker in the first place. His eyes were thickly lashed and surprisingly so, giving him a lazy and sensual look, one that was encouraged by the slight smile that curved his lips.

There was a whiff of the greater world about him, of conquest and battle, distant lands and potent kings. That had to explain her unholy fascination with him. Never mind that his voice was deep and his accent exotic. He moved with the lithe grace of a cat, at ease with his body and its power as he strode to the far side of the hall. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his booted legs at the ankles, watching the portal with narrowed eyes. His fingertips were not far from the hilt of his blade and he gave an impression of coiled vigilance.

Elizabeth understood that Rafael was prepared for whatever might occur. He was a fighting man with experiences far beyond her own. She knew of skirmishes and battles, but Rafael lived in the realm of war. He fought weekly, if not daily, dispensing death and capturing the spoils. There was no complacency or comfort in Rafael’s life, no moment to be at ease, no leisure. She wondered how deeply or how often he slept. Rafael had lived with death and Elizabeth did not doubt that he had killed others himself.

Indeed, that realization revealed why Rafael, of all men, should be the one to make her heart leap. His familiarity with death had an affinity with her curse to witness it everywhere. When the mortal world seemed colorless and pale in contrast to that of the Fae, when she felt cold and distant from her fellows, it was welcome indeed to be shaken awake by the sight of this man, and warmed by his vitality.

The strange thing was, Elizabeth realized, that she could not see the shadow of death upon him at all. Every man in the hall bore a shadow of lesser or greater degree, but not Rafael.

How could that be?