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From the diary of Miss Miranda Bond

1 March, 1819

There is nothing more exasperating than the sound of a woman in pleasure if that woman is not you and there is very little hope that the woman will ever be you.

It is said, I think, that momentous journeys begin with the smallest impetus…. Well, perhaps it has been said only by me, but it sounds very well, so I shall use it as my motto, my mantra, my slogan for the campaign I am about to embark upon.

That cry of pleasure was my impetus.

To save my debt-ridden family, I will race to the windswept moors—to the estate of the mysterious and notorious Lord Blackthorne. Rumors of his strange, erotic tastes abound, but I believe not one of those salacious tales is true. Blackthorne saved my brother’s life on the bloody battlefield of Waterloo, and I know him to be a true hero.

It is more than the necessity of saving my family. From the letters we have exchanged for a precious, glorious year now, I know I love him.

So I must go to him, seduce him, and marry him.

Assuming I do not get lost, robbed, or murdered on the way….

15 March, 1819

“I want to plunge deep inside you, angel. I want to make you scream.”

Miranda shut her eyes and felt a shiver of anticipation tumble from her bare nape to her low back. He was here, again, hidden in the shadows behind her. His voice was purely erotic—the sound of it low and deep, rich and sexual. Completely male—both lusty and unapologetic.

It isn’t real. It is a dream, Miranda, her inner thoughts warned.

How could she know that? She was part of the dream—lost in it—but somehow she knew it was just a fantasy, and that if she forced her eyes to open, this exquisite moment would disappear.

His large hand settled on her neck. Skin-to-skin. No gloves. She was feeling a slightly roughened, long-fingered gentleman’s palm caressing her nape.

To have a man’s bare hand touch her flesh? It was exotic. Forbidden. Fire sizzled down her spine.

Miranda arched her back and daringly pressed her derriere against the man standing behind her.

Proper ladies did not do such things.

But the whole point was she could not be a proper lady anymore.

Tall. She knew he was tall. She couldn’t see him, but she could sense his head above hers. His long hair hung loose, and silky strands teased her skin above her bodice. She couldn’t hear him breathe, and when he didn’t speak, there was no sound at all.

She was staring into a cheval mirror, seeing nothing but her own reflection and the darkness surrounding her. She could never see him at first. Slowly, her dream world would reveal him to her.

His finger lazily drew circles on the back of her neck. “Do you want me deep in you, angel?” His voice held a wry, teasing note. “I can’t enter you—unless you tell me ‘yes.’”

Something hard—and thick—poked against her rump.

She knew what it was. Each night her dreams had become more daring. Last night, her last night spent in her own bed before leaving her home, she’d lost her virginity in her dream.

Not in reality, though. And in her dream world she had never seen the face of the man to whom she’d surrendered.

Was he Lord Blackthorne? Did she never see the man in her dreams because she had never seen Blackthorne?

Yet the scandalous, shocking, carnal things he did to her in her dreams felt so real.

Suddenly, her clothes fell away. The weight of gown and skirts simply dropped to the floor, though no hand had unfastened them. Her corset unlaced by itself, compelled by the magic in her dream.

“Y-yes.” She spoke on a tremble, her voice filled with passion, nerves, and frustration. “I want you inside.”

His hand skimmed along the round curve of her rump to cup the underside of her thigh. He coaxed her to raise her leg and perch her foot on a silk-cushioned stool. It opened her nether regions to his hands, and his fingers invaded.

She was so wet, drenched with juices.

“This is how I like you, angel. Slick and wet and open for me.”

He never used her name. But she was certain she knew his—that her fantasy was indeed Lawrence Adrian Phillip South-wick, the Earl of Blackthorne.

Miranda tensed, then moaned with delight as he opened her wider. All she could think of was his fingers: two inside her, spreading her open; then three—impossibly, he slid three fingers deep into her core, and flicked his thumb back and forth over the most sensitive spot at the junction of her nether lips.

“You belong to me, love.”

She did. From the moment she had opened his first letter, she had.

“You belong to me,” she said in return; though in her dreams, she took action more than she spoke. She did things like saucily turn to try to see him while she licked her lips. “And I want you deep.”

She couldn’t see him. Darkness slanted over his face. All she could see was his wide chest—all ridged muscle and hard nipples and rippling skin. Then he gripped her hair, yanked it free from her pins, wound the length of it around his wrist. Holding her like his captive, he surged into her.

It felt so good. Good enough to melt her like chocolate in the sun.

How she did scream. And, oh, but he did go deep. Right to her womb, and delicious agony spiraled through her. How could it feel so good when it made her sob and whimper and howl?

But the very exquisite agony of it was so…addictive.

He’d vowed to make her scream, and he did. With his hard thrusts, with the ruthless lunge of his groin against hers, with his low, ragged growls and the harsh rush of his breath against her ear. Her bottom slapped against him, her cheeks shimmering with each bounce. Her breasts danced in front of her—until he clasped them and tugged on her nipples, twisting them until she begged him to stop…

Then begged for more.

“Come.” He said it as a command. She was at the precipice, wound up like a spring, like a keg of gunpowder awaiting the sizzle of the fuse. And on that word, she burst.

Sheer pleasure took command, and all she could do was surrender her body to the intense, wonderful wash of it. She cried out, cried out to heaven above, let her head fall forward and back, until she was dizzy with the ecstasy.

He held her through her wild dance, chuckling gently by her ear. Then the pulses of her wet quim began to ease and she could finally drag in a desperate breath. Sweat drenched her.

Something cold touched her skin.

Cool and sharp, something that felt like a knife’s blade ran along the side of her neck, from her jaw to the lobe of her ear.

Miranda froze in horror. It was not a knife. The flash of white in the mirror stole her breath.

Fangs lapped over Blackthorne’s lips. She could not see his mouth—it was too dark, but moonlight glimmered on his two long, curved teeth, like those on a wolf. It wasn’t possible.

But on some nights she had dreamed of demons chasing her; she’d imagined pounding feet and animal-like growls, and powerful hands reaching for her.

Oh God, she was sliding into one of those dreams. She shook helplessly. She didn’t want to dream of demons now. She wanted this luxurious erotic dream. For one night, she wanted to be free of fear.

She blinked and his fangs were gone.

“Not tonight, my love,” he murmured. “It is not the night to make you mine. Not yet.”

Make you mine. But what did he mean about biting? The shadows seemed to be swallowing the air around her. She wanted to wake up. It wasn’t real—it was just a dream. But she could smell her sweat and his. The tangy aroma of his seed rose from between her thighs. She felt damp, sticky, and sore. All those sensations seemed more real than a pinch to her arm.

How could it feel so real when she was asleep?

The window flew wide on a clatter of glass panes and creaking wooden frame. “Goodness!” She almost jumped out of her skin. Darkness rushed inside as though the night air was pouring into the room.

No, not darkness. In her dream, everything she saw seemed distorted and confused. She didn’t even know what room she was in. She now saw the walls surrounding her were stone. Embroidered tapestries hung upon them. Could she be dreaming of Blackthorne’s castle?

A man now stood in front of the window, inside the room. Another naked man with golden hair that fell past his shoulders. He was erect, ready to take her.

Her dream lover held her shoulders and turned her to face the man who had—who had just flown in through the window.

His golden hair flew around him, shielding his face. His voice seemed to thrum in her blood. “Until you learn about the power of three, you are in mortal danger, Miss Bond.”

She was afraid now. Wake up. Wake up! Miranda shouted it in her head, but she was trapped in the shadowed room, imprisoned by the hands on her shoulders.

“What is the power of three?” she demanded. She yelled it, hoping it would snap her free of her dream. Dreamers never died, did they? They fell but never reached the ground. They might be struck, or shot, or be drowning, but they woke before the end.

Didn’t they?

A sharp, sudden pain ripped into her neck. Screams filled the room and flew out into the night. The screams belonged to her. She could see her body and realized she was floating in the top of the room, just below the ceiling. Her arms and legs were stretched wide, her hair streamed back like a cape, and she coasted on the cool air wafting in through the window.

But she was looking down on herself below, as though she were soaring over her body. The golden-haired man prowled toward her below. Her mouth was wide open in a shriek, but she could hear no sound. His erection wobbled in front of him, reflecting moonlight. Naked, defined by the hard bulges and curves of solid muscle, his body seemed to glow blue-white within the shadows.

He tipped his head up and fangs shot out of his mouth.

He bent to her neck and she felt a dull ripple of pain as she saw his canines penetrate her neck below. Air currents began to spin her. She slowly circled and watched as two demons drank the blood from her body, gulping hungrily, making low moans of appreciation.

Wake up. Wake up.

She was sinking back to her body now, losing blood and growing weak. If she didn’t wake up, she would die—

The golden-haired man lifted from her neck. “Now, angel, we take your power. And make you ours for eternity.”

“We know what you are, Miranda,” the other man murmured behind her. “A witch.”

On a fierce scream, she bolted upright. A heavy fur throw slid down her lap, and the world lurched drastically to the left. Miranda pitched against the side of a moving room but struck softness. A clattering sound, rhythmic but jarring, hammered into her brain. Somewhere, horses gave muffled whinnies.

She was in her carriage, or rather, one of her brother’s carriages. Her corset clamped her lungs, dug into her ribs, and prevented her from taking a deep breath. Lace along her neckline itched, her skirts were tangled around her legs, and her feet throbbed hotly in her tightly laced half boots.

She was alive. Alive and alone. And safe.

It had all been a dream. Thank heaven.

“I am not a witch,” she shouted aloud to the empty carriage. But she was shaking, despite the fierce way she was hugging herself.

Two weeks ago, she had written down her plan to save her impoverished brother and his wife by racing to Lord Blackthorne and convincing him to marry her. How trivial poverty seemed now.

The day after she’d made her plans, a vampire slayer named James Ryder had come to her brother’s house. Like her Aunt Eugenia, Ryder was a member of the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena. And once he began to ask her questions, she realized he knew of her special power.

Aunt Eugenia had warned her never to tell anyone—not even the Royal Society. So she had pretended not to understand him and had played a vapor-brained twit until he’d left in frustration.

But Ryder had come upon her in the park.

You are a demon. Or a witch, he’d said. Only an evil, otherworldly being can possess the power of magic. And as a slayer, it is my sworn duty to destroy you.

The intense, almost fanatical fire in his blue eyes had terrified her. It certainly proved she wasn’t a woman to swoon—she’d never had a better reason to faint. But she’d stayed on her feet, determined to fight for her life. She had blustered that he must be mad, that she knew nothing of magic, and was certainly no witch. And inside, she had been thinking, I’ve saved lives. That’s all I’ve ever done. But after all, how many innocent women had been burned at stakes through history?

The Royal Society believes you must be removed, he’d said coolly. He’d stroked her cheek, and she’d been too horrified to pull away from his touch. You’ll never know when it will happen, love. But I promise it will hurt. Then he’d slipped away and disappeared in the crowd of the ton that filled the park. Simon and Caroline had caught up with her, and though she’d lied about what happened, she knew they’d sensed her terror.

The Royal Society wanted her dead. She couldn’t put her family at risk. And by staying, she was putting Aunt Eugenia in danger.

Lord Blackthorne was the only one she could turn to. He’d told her—in letters—that he was falling in love with her. She prayed it was true. She prayed that she could go to him and find safety. And through his power and wealth, she could also protect her family.

“Hold hard!”

The coachman was shouting. That was no dream; his furious shout was real. Suddenly, the carriage skidded on the road and the horses screamed in terror.

“What is it?” Miranda cried, clinging to the seat. But over the clatter of the traces, the frightening creaking of the carriage, she did not think anyone would hear.

The wheels seemed to catch in the road and tipped to the right, then swung back over to the left. Men—the coachman, the outriders who thought they were escorting her on her brother’s orders—shouted and hollered. A lot of colorful cursing filled the air. But they were going to overturn…

There was no way to stop it. Miranda grabbed the seat, but the force of the spill threw her. The other side of the carriage slammed her back and she tumbled around as the carriage went over. Her face hit the frame of the window, stunning her. Had she lost all her teeth? Broken her cheek? Pain shot through her and her stomach churned.

The side of the carriage scraped across the rutted ground as the horses tried to run, dragging the heavy carriage behind them.

Then it stopped.

Miranda let her head fall to rest against the wall. Oh dear God.

She wanted to be sick.

Women were supposed to swoon over far less. But she was going to stay conscious, even if it killed her. Her lower lip stung and she wiped her hand across it. Of course, blood instantly streaked her white muslin glove. She tasted the coppery tang on her tongue.

Someone wrenched open the door that was now above her. Brilliant sunlight and cool air poured in.

“Miss? Are you all right, miss?”

“Yes.” And she was. Though she was lying on her back and her feet stuck up in the air. Her skirts had tangled around her legs, her pelisse had wrapped itself around her arms. It was a most undignified situation, and her head ached like blazes.

The coachman flushed red. “Would you allow me to help you out, Miss Bond?”

“I don’t see how else I’ll get out.” Blasted clothes. “What happened?”

His hand came down—he tried to grasp her wrist without actually looking at her. Apparently, he didn’t want to be accused of behaving improperly. She sighed, then grasped his hand.

“The horses went mad,” he said. “And then, out of nowhere, some sort of creature appeared in front of us. We tried to rein in, but the horses were wild with fear. Then the carriage went over.”

“A creature? Do you mean a wolf? A wild dog?”

“No, my lady, it wasn’t that.” He pulled her upward, and she struggled to gain purchase against a wall or the seat, something to lift her out.

This was certainly an adventure. When had she ever had to hike up her skirts to climb out of an upturned carriage, then slide off the wall, which was now up in the air like the roof?

Her brother’s coachman looked mortally embarrassed as he helped her scramble through the door opening. He was a handsome man with coal black hair and flashing eyes, but he was not supposed to be clasping arms around a lady’s waist to set her on the ground.

“Thank you,” she breathed, to let him know that she didn’t care one whit about propriety in the situation.

She and the coachman shared an awkward moment while he gruffly acknowledged her appreciation. The sunlight promised a beautiful day, but the air she sucked in was crisp with the newness of spring, and her shoes were sinking into the muddy road. Fading gold light picked out a scene of madness: of the poor horses, one was on its side and screaming, and the other was fighting the constraint of the traces. Outriders were struggling to free them. The carriage was a battered wreck.

She was lucky to have survived.

That made her more determined to know what had happened. “If it wasn’t a wolf or a dog, what was it?”

“It was a massive beast with fangs,” the coachman said at the same instant one of the outriders shouted, “It was a vampire!”

“Oh, surely not,” she discounted. Had the servants been drinking? She hoped not. And they had not stopped long enough at an inn for the men to have a drink.

It would be expected that she would say such a thing was a foolish superstition. But she knew there really were creatures with fangs that drank human blood and who hunted the English countryside. When she had been very little and Aunt Eugenia told her vampire stories, she had not believed such monsters were real. She’d loved Aunt Eugenia but always had thought her eccentric. She’d thought her aunt just liked to scare her.

Now she knew monsters and demons existed.

“It was a man,” one of the outriders insisted. “A giant of a man, with fangs.”

“Blow it,” growled the coachman. “I doubt we can set this thing to rights. What are we to do?”

Miranda wrapped her arms around herself. A cold wind cut through her pelisse, and she still throbbed with pain all over.

“The village of Little Darkling is yonder.” Her coachman pointed. Through the budding trees of a small forest she could see muddy fields, a few stone farmhouses and stables, then a huddle of buildings. Sunlight glinted on paned windows and smoke curled from chimneys—the little cottages looked rather enticing.

“Let us walk, then,” she suggested. It would be a slog in the mud and would take hours. Clouds rolled swiftly over the sun. A few snowflakes wafted down, and the dampness seemed to rush through her skin. Her beautiful day was vanishing. But what choice did the have?

Before any of the men could answer, a low growl rolled out of the stretch of dark woods that separated them from the warm, inviting homes. Branches cracked, leaves twitched, but Miranda could not see a thing. Snowflakes thickened and swirled in wild spirals. Miranda gasped as the coachman drew out his pistol. “Get back, my lady,” he cried.

A silvery shape exploded out of the shadows—a wolf with dark fur and long legs that swallowed up the ground as he tore toward them. The animal’s jaws parted. Arm rock steady, the coachman took aim, but Miranda cried, “No!”

Like a streak of lightning, the wolf shot past.

“Heavens,” she gasped. “Something frightened it. It was not running to attack us, it was running for its life!”

The coachman looked at her as though she was mad. But she ignored that; it was not uncommon for a man to roll his eyes at any woman who voiced an opinion.

But what had spooked the wolf?

Her outriders, two staunch men who had served her family for years, crossed themselves. “I told yer,” said one, who held the horses by the reins, “I’m not going that way. Not through those woods.”

But the other, holding a pistol of his own, had crept ahead a few yards along the narrow road. “It’s likely another wolf. A bigger one,” he shouted back.

“It makes no sense,” Miranda muttered. “Wolves are nocturnal.” Aunt Eugenia had told her of the eerie sounds of them in the Carpathians, and she knew their howls from her family’s country home.

Before her eyes, the dark shadows of the forest seemed to surge out of the trees and rush down the road. Thick blackness swarmed around the man and he turned to run. He howled in sheer terror. It was as though the gloom of the forest had swallowed him whole. Miranda cried out, and the men stood transfixed in shock. A shot exploded. Her coachman had fired, and the flare of powder blinded her.

Blinking, she focused again on the road.

It was empty. The man had vanished.

“No, that’s not possible.” She swung around on the coachman. “We must find him. He must have been dragged off the road—”

“We can’t kill a vampire with a pistol shot.”

“It’s not a vampire. This is daylight, for heaven’s sake! Vampires cannot come out in sunlight.” Or so Aunt Eugenia had told her.

The horses reared, tossed their heads, and hooves flailed. The other outrider had to release the reins; the horses were almost berserk. Then, hooves pounding and throwing up muck, the animals ran.

“They sense it!” The coachman grabbed her arm and pushed her ahead of him. “Run, miss!”

Run? If it was a wolf or a wild dog, she couldn’t outrun an animal like that. And an animal would scent her…

A growl sounded right behind her. Behind her, in the grass, when she had seen nothing go past. Miranda hauled up her hems and stumbled through the mud, away from the forest.

Wasn’t running the worst possible thing to do? Wasn’t it madness to run?

Wind rushed in her ears, but she didn’t think it really was the wind—it was her fear, the race of her blood. She knew something was running behind her. She just…knew.

Was it her coachman with his weapon, or something else?

Black clouds slid across the sun like fingers clutching at the light, and then she was plunged into complete darkness. All light had been extinguished like a candle blown out with a puff of air. There was no sunlight at all—in the middle of the day.

She stopped, stunned, her chest heaving.

All her landmarks were gone. The line of trees, the dip of the fields, the waving heather—it was all just a sea of formless shadow.

Miranda turned in a helpless circle, afraid to take a step.

The ground crunched, and she knew that whatever was chasing her had made the sound deliberately. It was playing with her.

And it was working. She was paralyzed with terror as she heard a soft crack, then the relentless thud of footsteps. She spun around but could see nothing but shadowed trees and rippling grass.

There had to be a way out, or some weapon she could use. Even her reticule would be something, but it lay in the overturned carriage.

Where were her coachman and the other outrider? Had they fled for their lives and left her? When the coachman had pushed her to run, he looked as if the very devil himself was about the drag them to a fiery hell.

Another growl, closer now.

She didn’t understand why the animal didn’t spring. It could take her to the ground and tear her apart. Why did it wait? She wished she had food in her hand, something to throw as far away from her as she could.

“But that would not help, my love,” a deep masculine voice growled. “For you are the only delectable treat that tempts me.”

A man! Where? But not a savior. She knew that from the hungry, predatory sound of his voice, from the words he’d chosen. Had he been the thing chasing her?

Realization froze her to the spot. She had not spoken aloud. He had answered words she’d uttered only in her head.

The shadows stirred and he stepped forward; her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, so she could see him.

He was huge. He stood far taller than her—far, far taller—and he was surrounded by a dark cape that whipped in the wind. She realized that his hair was waist length and it danced around his chiseled face. Something white glinted at her—

Long, evil-looking fangs, just like in her dream.

Suddenly, strong hands wrapped around her wrists. A guttural laugh echoed by her ear.

He’d been several feet away from her and now he was gripping her, and she hadn’t seen him move.

Any sensible woman would faint. Why go to death conscious? But Miranda realized she couldn’t let herself take that way out.

Powerful arms swept her up, and she kicked and scratched and screamed. A scent enveloped her along with the strong arms. Sweet and rich, as alluring as chocolate. Primal and musky and unbearably mesmerizing too. Somehow the man’s smell made her relax and tense at the same time.

“Quiet. I won’t hurt you. In fact, it’s my need, pretty little lass, to do the opposite.” His husky, baritone voice spoke English in a sensual accent.

He pulled her closer to him, squashing her breasts against his wide, hard chest. She’d never been so close to a man, except in her dream world. She’d never been held like this. A bit of cloud slid away from the sun and light slanted over his face.

His cheek glowed as though it had caught fire. Smoke spiraled off his skin.

She almost gagged on the smell of burning flesh.

A man with fangs, one who burned in sunlight. A vampire.

His full, seductive mouth curved into a grimace of pain, then the faint bit of light disappeared.

“What are you?” she managed. But her traitorous body did not want to struggle in his arms. His scent made her…weak. Her skin felt warm, and her head felt too dizzy. But she had to break free, and she forced her legs to thrash wildly.

“Stop. I am Zayan,” he growled by her ear. That rumble of sound was not like an animal, but like the way she’d heard her brother Simon growl to his new wife, Caroline. Lustful. Hot. Aroused.

She should be afraid. But her nipples hardened, and her breasts lifted against the soft brush of her chemise. Between her thighs, she ached and got hot and sticky, the way she did when she had her dreams.

She must be going mad. Or she was trapped in another dream. In the last dream, she’d been dying!

She would break free of this nightmare. This was enough. Miranda lashed out. Her boot flailed wildly and made contact with his hip with a thud that she felt through her shin. She hammered her fists against his arms, writhed, and twisted against his grip.

And nothing worked. He gazed down at her with amusement, those terrifying fangs exposed by his smile. His eyes were the dark silvery gray of the snowy sky. They held her like a hypnotist’s twirling silver watch.

A thunderous roar exploded from the woods, and a brilliant red light exploded outward from inside it. The light scattered into winking stars and disappeared, but out of its core, another man appeared. As large as the one who still held her. His hair was as long and black but bore a brilliant silvery white streak within it. He, too, had fangs.

“Bloody hell, it’s daylight.” This man’s hands were bare, and smoke plumed from the backs of them. “Your brilliant plan was to escape our prison into the bloody middle of the day?”

Wake up. Wake up, Miranda! But she was awake.

“I’ve cast darkness around the sun, but it will fade soon—” Zayan broke off and muttered a curse. A particularly coarse one.

Clamped to his body, Miranda twisted to look.

A mass of snowflakes swirled over the grass to the side, and they looked as red as blood. Then the fluttering flakes joined, forming a shape. It grew legs, a thick body, a long neck, and a giant head. A dragon.

Impossible.

Whatever it was, it ran toward her and the…the vampires.

Stay.

She heard Zayan’s voice in her head, and though she tried to force her limbs to move, they would not.

The ground shook as the red dragon charged at them, and though she blinked a dozen times, the monster did not vanish. Wide blood-red wings seemed to hang in the air. Giant legs swallowed up the ground as it half-ran, half-flew at them. An enormous, serpent-like head leaned forward, leading the massive body.

Flames tore out of the dragon’s mouth. Bracken caught fire, flared, and became instant ash. Miranda meant to scream, but it caught in her throat, choking her.

The other vampire muttered, “Bloody Christ Jesus.” He stalked toward the beast and held up his hand. Flames launched from the slavering jaws and hit the vampire’s hand. Then disappeared.

The dragon gave an unearthly shriek and it sounded like a cry of frustration. Calmly, wearing a glare of impatience, the vampire formed a ball of pale blue light between his hands.

That was most definitely not possible. But Miranda was watching it happen.

The vampire shot his whirling ball of blue light at the snowflake dragon. An explosion shook the ground and the dragon fell. The beast’s body disappeared as it hit the waving fronds of heather.

It was gone.

That, she heard Zayan say, proved far too easy.

Too easy?

We must return to your carriage. And with that, he released her.

“How ridiculous.” Suddenly, her arms were free and she waved them in fury. For anger was better than giving in to shock and fainting dead away in the road. “I am not taking you within my carriage. And I cannot—it’s lying broken on the road and the horses are gone.”

Intriguing. You are not begging for your life. You are not crying or quivering in fear.

Could Zayan not hear the fevered beat of her heart? Aunt Eugenia said vampires could hear heartbeats. And could smell blood. “I doubt either would do me any good,” she exclaimed. “You’d laugh if I begged and hurt me even if I cried.”

Zayan grinned at the other vampire. A courageous woman. I have met so few truly brave women. Most will fight for their lives with every weapon they possess. Then he looked her over in the most…lecherous, scandalous, audacious way.

She did not want to hear his voice in her head. “Speak in words! Speak out loud! I do not even think you really exist. I’m dreaming!”

Hold out your arm, Zayan commanded. Her arm, entirely against her will, extended at his wish. The other vampire cocked his head, as though laughing at her. Zayan bent over her wrist.

He licked her.

Flicked his tongue along her skin.

He bit her.

She wrenched her arm, fearing that his teeth would rip her skin open, but he let her go.

Dreams might bite, angel, but that little jolt of pain would awaken a dreamer. Now, my dear, we need refuge or the sunlight will burn us to ash.

“Then take the carriage, for all the good it will do you.” She pointed toward where her carriage was. She could see the wounds on her wrist. Two puncture marks showed just below her veins. A vampire’s bite, exactly as Eugenia had described.

“And what do you intend to do, angel?” The other vampire asked.

She wouldn’t answer that.

“Ah, you plan to walk to the village.” Zayan tilted his head and the wind threw his hair behind him. Long, wavy, it looked like the style of the rakish and handsome Charles II. “I would not advise it. There are wolves out, and they are excited by the scent of magic in the air.”

The scent of magic? But she shivered—he was correct. She smelled something in the air—an exotic richness, a breathtaking scent that was alluring and indescribable.

The other vampire, the one with the streak of silver in his hair, strode forward. “You are to come with us, sweeting.”

“I won’t.”

“I can force you to come with me. I can control your mind, and you will obediently place one foot before the other and follow me.”

“Then do that,” she snapped, “because I won’t go willingly.”

“I am glad, fair lady, that yours is the first carriage we’ve encountered. But I have not the time to do battles with words.”

This vampire also wore a cape, one of black velvet, trimmed in a thick, luxurious fur of gray and white. Wolf fur. A jeweled clasp held it.

He tossed her over his shoulder, his hand clamped on her bottom to hold her in place. He squeezed her rump through her skirts.

“Put me down!”

“Let us take a look at your carriage first.”

They strode over, and though she kicked and struggled, she could not break free. She could not even see the wreck of the carriage, though she felt a perverse sense of satisfaction when the vampires paused, and the one holding her groaned.

She remembered what it had looked like. Jagged shards of once gleaming wood had jutted up into the air. The door had been hanging off. Bits of one wheel were strewn about.

She could also smell the vampires’ burning skin.

The vampire who held her snapped his fingers. At once, she heard the horses neigh, then the sloppy sound of hooves fighting through the mud. Within moments, the horses had returned, tossing their heads.

“Gentle,” the vampire murmured, holding up his hand. Manes waved in the snow-laden air, but the animals stopped prancing and fussing, then lowered their heads.

Docile fools, she thought.

Zayan waved his hand in a graceful circle. He conjured a vivid purple light that twined around his arm like a snake.

The light spun through the air and hit the carriage, where it seemed to rain down like soft rose petals. All she could see was a lovely violet glow.

As in the fairy tale Cinderella, a carriage materialized before her eyes—but not from a pumpkin and mice, from the wreckage of Simon’s best traveling coach. She blinked hard. As her lids lifted, she discovered the horses in their traces.

She twisted in the grasp of the vampire in the wolf’s cloak. “What did you do?”

“It would be much better for you to travel in comfort,” Zayan answered.

“That’s not what I mean. You can’t just wave your hand and have a broken carriage leap back onto its wheels, fixed and perfect! It’s not possible.”

“That is the power of magic.”

The vampire holding her began to stride to the magically repaired carriage. “Enough talk. We need refuge from the light.” The hand massaged her derriere in the most scandalous way. Unwanted heat rushed through her.

She should be terrified, not growing hot. Not breathing in this…aroused way.

Vampires, Aunt Eugenia had warned, could control a woman’s mind. With ease, apparently. And they possessed an allure no woman had to resist, a “glamour” that drew women to them and made them willing victims, a power that was supposed to be the work of the devil.

Miranda had to find every ounce of strength to fight.

The vampire patted her derriere. “I hunger, sweeting. I have appetites that have been denied too long.”

“Yes, angel.” Zayan laughed. He gave the same naughty chuckle as the unseen man in her dreams. “We both hunger.”