She was asleep at his side when dusk released him from his prison of darkness. Her hair was spread across his pillow, a splash of gold against the black silken case. Her arm rested on his chest, her head was pillowed on his shoulder. One slender leg was nestled between his.

The heat of her smooth sweet flesh against his own, the flowery fragrance of her hair, the scent of her blood, had him awake and aching between one breath and the next.

What was he to do with her? She refused to be intimidated by him, refused to leave when he gave her the chance. Last night, when she should have run screaming from his presence, she had offered him the very essence of her life. No other woman had ever come to him willingly, nor looked on him with love.

No other woman had ever looked past the monster to the lonely man who yearned to be free of the darkness that housed him.

Rhianna... She had looked into his heart and soul and given him a gift that he could not buy at any price - she had given him the sun he had not dared look upon for four centuries.

Turning his head, Rayven studied the painting. Even in the darkness, he could see it clearly; the warm hues of the sunrise, the azure blue of the lake, the bright bold colors of the flowers, the bird sitting slightly askew on the branch of a tree. So long since he had seen flowers in the clear light of day, a bird, a lake sparkling in the sun. He had seen paintings created by masterful artists, but none more beautiful than this.

Rhianna...

He brushed a featherlike kiss across her cheek. She had given him a glimpse of the sun again. If he had any honor at all, he would give her her freedom in return. He would leave her now, while she slept. Leave and never see her again.

But he wouldn't. Couldn't. In four hundred years, she was his one chance for happiness. Tonight she would be his bride. He would coddle her and love her for what was left of their year, and then he would send her back to her own world, where she belonged. His heart, which he had thought as hard as the stone walls of his castle, seemed to crumble at the thought.

With a sleepy sigh, she stirred in his arms, opened her eyes, and smiled up at him. Such beautiful eyes she had, he mused, as blue as a summer sky at midday.

"Good evening, my lord," she murmured. Her sleep-roughened voice caressed him like velvet.

"Good evening, Rhianna."

"Might we have some light?"

With a soft grunt of acquiescence, he fixed his gaze on the bedside candle, which instantly blazed to life.

"Is that better?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I never thanked you for the painting."

"Do you like it?"

"Very much." His fingertips stroked the soft curve of her cheek. "Why did you not leave when I told you to go?"

"Because you need me, my lord, no matter how you may wish to deny it."

"And why are you here, beside me?"

"You once said you liked having me here beside you when you woke," she replied candidly. "Should I go?"

"No." His arm tightened around her. "My deathlike sleep does not frighten you?"

"A little."

"You are a most amazing child."

"I'm not a child, my lord." Though she supposed, to one of his vast age, she seemed very young indeed.

"Your face." She lifted a hand to his cheek, her eyes wide with wonder. His skin, though still red, didn't look nearly as bad as it had the night before. " 'Tis much better."

Rayven glanced at his hand. The awful rawness was gone, though the skin had not completely regenerated. Other injuries healed overnight while he slept, but burns always took longer to heal.

"No doubt I'll frighten your mother even more when she sees my face."

"The wedding!" Rhianna bolted upright. "What time is it?"

"Near six."

"Six. And we're to be wed at seven! Why didn't you wake me sooner!" she exclaimed, and then blushed furiously.

Rayven laughed softly as color flooded her cheeks. "You have not changed your mind, then?"

"No, but I've got to go." She stood up and ran a hand through her hair. "I'll never be ready in time. I've got to bathe, dress, arrange my hair..." She bent to brush a kiss over his lips. "I've got to go."

"Take your time, sweet Rhianna. There's never yet been a wedding that wouldn't wait for the bride."

The chapel was located on the far side of the castle. Built of white stone, it shimmered beneath the light of a full moon. An intricately carved wooden cross stood to one side of the arched double doors. Lacy willows whispered secrets to the night, while shadows played hide and seek with the moon.

He stood in the darkness, his gaze fixed on the chapel. He had been inside only once in all the years that the castle had been his.

He whirled around as a familiar scent reached his nostrils. "Madam." He bowed at the waist.

"Is there nothing I can say to persuade you to call off this wedding?"

Rayven shook his head. "Nothing. She will be mine."

"What are you?"

He glanced away, then met her gaze once more. "I love your daughter, Mistress McLeod. I swear I will do her no harm."

"I don't believe you."

He shrugged. "I find your concern well-placed but rather late."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you forgotten her own father sold her to me?"

Hot color surged into Ada McLeod's cheeks. "Of course I've not forgotten!"

"I could keep her with me for the rest of her life," Rayven said quietly. "Do not begrudge me a single year." He lifted his head, his senses testing the breeze. "She's here," he said, and whirling away from Rhianna's mother, he disappeared into the darkness.

He entered the chapel through a side door and took his place at the altar. The light from a dozen tall wax candles filled the edifice with a soft golden glow.

Dallon Montroy stood beside him, his expression solemn. Montroy, who preferred coats in brilliant hues of green and gold, looked almost subdued in a dark blue coat, striped cravat, and buff-colored breeches.

Tom Bevins, looking solemn and quite handsome in a dark brown suit and cravat, sat alone in the front pew on the left. Rhianna's mother sat on the right. Brenna and Bridgitte, clad in gowns of lavender and blue, sat on either side of their mother.

Rayven did not miss the furtive glances that Bevins sent in Ada's direction, or the faint flush that rose in Ada McLeod's cheeks when she caught Bevins looking her way.

The priest took his place at the altar. Moments later, Aileen walked down the aisle, followed by Lanna.

They wore matching pink gowns trimmed with dark velvet ribbons.

And then he saw Rhianna. Aileen's husband, Creighton, walked her down the aisle, but Rayven had eyes only for Rhianna.

She wore a gown of white silk and brocade. The bodice was square cut, the sleeves long and fitted. A gossamer veil covered her face. She looked like an angel, he thought, the very essence of purity and light.

He was aware of Ada McLeod's tears, of the jealousy that radiated from Montroy like waves of heat off hot desert sand. He sensed Bevins's good wishes, the misgivings of the priest.

The small chapel seemed to resonate with the sound of their combined heartbeats, their thoughts clamored inside his head, a chorus of unwanted voices.

Why are you doing this, daughter? Where did I fail?

I love you, Rhianna. I pray you will be happy.

Does she know what she's doing? Is it too late to warn her?

I'll miss you, Rhianna. Please come and see us often.

He felt Ada McLeod's motherly concern, Montroy's broken heart, the priest's anxiety, Bridgitte's sense of loss, Brenna's curiosity as she wondered what had happened to the left side of his face, Aileen's hope that her oldest sister would be happy, Lanna's certainty that all the wealth in the world would not be enough to make her live in Castle Rayven with its dark lord.

He took a deep breath, and his nostrils filled with the scent of the blood flowing in their veins.

But he had fed well this night, and the hunger slept within him.

And then Rhianna was there, at his side, and he blocked everything from his mind but the beauty of the young woman who was about to become his bride. He could hear the excited drumming of her heart as she looked up at him. Her skin was soft and warm, her eyes shining with love as she placed her hand in his.

Together, they turned to face the priest.

The ceremony was brief. He listened to the words that bound them together and thought he had never heard more beautiful words spoken in all his life.

And then it was over, and she was his. He could not stay the trembling of his hands as he lifted the veil from her face. Never, in four hundred years, had he imagined a moment like this. Time lost all meaning as he gazed down at her, imprinting her image deep in his mind and heart so he could recall the quiet beauty of her face and form when she was gone.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest repeated in a loud whisper.

Rayven nodded. And then, with a near-forgotten sense of reverence, he drew Rhianna into his arms and kissed her. I love you, sweet Rhianna. I swear to love you and care for you so long as you are mine.

Rhianna looked up at him when he ended the kiss. Had she imagined his voice in her mind?

"I love you, sweet Rhianna," he said quietly. "I swear to love you and care for you so long as you are mine."

He repeated the words with quiet intensity, the same words she had heard in her mind. Before she could ponder what it meant, her mother and sisters surrounded her.

"Congratulations, my lord," Dallon said, offering Rayven his hand. "I hope you and your bride will be happy together."

"Thank you, Montroy," Rayven replied sincerely. "I know how hard this has been for you."

"Indeed." Montroy glanced over at Rhianna. Never had she looked more beautiful, more innocent. More desirable. "Would you mind if I kissed the bride?"

"It's tradition, I believe."

With a nod, Dallon made his way toward Rhianna. "I wish you every happiness," he said, taking her hands in his.

"Thank you, Dallon."

His gaze held hers. "You are happy then? This is what you want - not what he wants?"

"Believe me, Dallon, it's what I want. I've never been happier."

"Then I'm glad, for your sake." Bending, he kissed her cheek, then whispered, "If you ever need anything, you have only to send word, and I'll be here."

"Thank you, Dallon."

With a nod, he turned away and left the chapel.

Bevins had prepared a late supper for the guests. If anyone thought it odd that the groom didn't eat, no one said anything.

When the meal was over, Aileen insisted on giving Creighton a tour of the castle and urged Rhianna and her mother and sisters to go along, even though they'd already seen it.

With a helpless shrug, Rhianna went with the others.

Alone in the dining room, Rayven sat back in his chair, one hand curled around a crystal goblet. He drained the glass in a single long swallow, refilled it, and drank again.

She was his bride. Soon, he would make her his wife in the most intimate sense of the word. The mere idea frightened him as nothing else had.

He filled the glass a third time, determined to drown the hunger in a river of blood in hopes that his bride would be safe in his arms. "Have I done the right thing, Tom?"

Bevins paused in the doorway. Even after fifty years, it sometimes surprised him that his master could read his thoughts, could sense his presence even before he entered the room.

"My lord?"

"I'm..." he took a deep breath as he contemplated the crimson droplets that shimmered in the bottom of the goblet, "... afraid."

"She loves you, my lord. She trusts you."

Rayven nodded. "But can I trust myself?"

Bevins crossed the floor. Kneeling before his master, he rolled up his shirtsleeve and extended his arm.

"Take what you need, my lord."

Rayven lifted the empty goblet. "This should be sufficient."

"On this night, the blood of sheep may not be strong enough to keep the hunger at bay."

Rayven nodded, silently admitting the truth in his servant's words. And then, humbled by the understanding in Bevins's eyes, ashamed of the need that controlled him, his fingers closed around the other man's wrist.

"Have they gone?" Rayven stood up as Rhianna entered the study.

"Yes. Why did you not come out and say goodbye?"

He snorted softly, remembering the way Rhianna's mother had looked at him, as if he were a bug that needed squashing. "I doubt I was missed."

"Rayven, what a thing to say!"

"Your mother bears me no love, my sweet, and your sisters look upon me as though I were a cross between an ogre and a warlock. I thought to spare them all my odious presence."

She wanted to argue, but knew it was useless. Her mother had spent the last ten days trying to talk her out of marrying the Lord of Castle Rayven; her sisters had admitted he was quite handsome, but they, too, feared she was making a grave mistake.

"You look wondrous fair, my sweet Rhianna. White suits you, but then, what else would an angel wear?"

"And black suits you," she replied.

She smiled as her gaze moved over him. His black broadcloth coat emphasized the spread of his shoulders; the velvet lapels added a touch of elegance. He wore a black cravat, black trousers, and black boots. The white of his fine linen shirt provided a stark contrast.

"Truly, I have never known so handsome a man in all my life."

He chuckled softly as he swung her into his arms and carried her up the winding staircase to the east tower. "And have you known many men in your short life?"

"No, nor do I desire to do so. You are man enough for me, my lord."

"I am not a man at all," he said quietly, and emphasized that fact by opening the tower door with the power of his mind.

Rhianna placed her hand over his mouth as he carried her into his bedroom, then set her on her feet.

"We will not dwell upon that tonight, my lord husband."

She removed her hand from his mouth and replaced it with her lips, kissing him deeply, passionately. She had no need to be cautious now. He was her husband, and she could touch him to her heart's content. To prove it, she pressed herself against him, the silk of her gown whispering against his clothing.

Rayven groaned low in his throat as her tongue skimmed his lower lip, gasped with surprise when she bit him.

"Careful, love," he warned. "You will not like what my blood will do to you."

She leaned back a little so she could see his face. "What will it do?"

"Enough of it will make you as I am, a creature damned for eternity, doomed to live forever in darkness.

You do not want that, my sweet."

He did not mention that to make her as he was he would first have to drink from her, take her to the point of death, or that she would then have to drink his accursed blood to return from the abyss of eternity.

"Surely a little would not harm me," she remarked, repulsed yet intrigued by the thought of tasting his immortal blood.

"No." A tremor of excitement tightened his loins as he imagined her teeth at his neck.

"Will you help me out of my gown, my lord?" she asked, her eyes shining with mischief.

"It will be my pleasure."

"I hope so, my lord," she retorted, and turned her back to him so he could unfasten the tiny cloth-covered buttons that began at the neck of her gown and ended just past her waist.

He was surprised to find his fingers trembling as he began the task. He lowered his head, kissing her nape, the shallow vee between her shoulders, as he removed her gown and undergarments until she stood before him wearing only her wedding slippers and stockings.

Dropping to his knees, he removed her slippers, then slid his hands over the curve of her calf. He paused to massage the hollow behind her knee, then his hand moved up the length of her thigh, lingering there a moment before he slowly drew the stocking from her left leg. Then his hands moved to her right leg and began all over again.

Rhianna shivered with pleasure as his hands caressed her calf, her thigh. His hands, though cool, caused her insides to flame with desire.

When he stood up, she began to undress him, her hands eager, curious, as they rid him of his coat, his vest, his cravat and shirt.

She grinned as his breathing increased in tempo with every item of clothing she tossed aside. He was trembling visibly by the time he stood naked before her.

Head tilted to one side, she regarded the man who was now her husband. He was tall and lean, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. His skin was the color of pale cream, unblemished, save for the half-healed burns on his left cheek and hand. His legs were long and straight, his stomach ridged with muscle. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt her cheeks flame, as her gaze skimmed over that part of him that made him a man. For some reason, she hadn't expected him to be so well-endowed.

Rayven basked in the warmth of Rhianna's gaze upon his naked flesh. The touch of her eyes was like fire, chasing away the cold, the darkness. It had been over four hundred years since a woman had looked at him with longing instead of terror...

He glanced at the bed, and into his mind came the image of the last woman he had taken to his bed.

Even now, after more than four hundred years, he could see her clearly, her brown eyes open and filled with horror. Her body, drained of blood, had been almost as white as the sheet upon which she lay. The drops of bright red blood that had fallen from his lips had added a garish note of color to the macabre scene.

His desire shriveled at the memory.

"What is it?" Rhianna asked. "What's wrong?"

He looked down at her, his eyes filled with torment and a deep-seated fear. "Rhianna... I cannot..."

She knew immediately what he was afraid of. Slipping her arms around his neck, she drew his head down and kissed him.

"It will be all right, my lord husband," she murmured. "I'm not afraid."

"Rhianna..."

She kissed him again, her hands gliding over broad shoulders, sliding over his chest, each touch a little bolder, until he was on fire for her, until his fear was smothered by the love he felt for this woman who had taken him into her heart, into the very sanctuary of her soul.

He carried her to the bed and placed her reverently upon it. For a timeless moment, he stared down at her, imprinting her image on his mind against the time when she would be gone, and then, gently, he lowered himself over her and sheathed himself within her welcome embrace. She was warm wine and honey in his arms, intoxicating and sweet, and he knew if he lived a thousand years, he would never forget this night.

Rhianna cried his name as all thought, all reason, was swept aside in a whirlpool of sensation. She felt loved, cherished, protected, but it was more than that and she knew - knew - that what she shared with Rayven was far beyond what she would have experienced in the arms of a mortal man.

Love and longing and flesh merged together. She sensed he was holding back, knew he was afraid of hurting her. Closing her eyes, she felt her soul blend with his, and as her passion bloomed, she let her heart speak to his, assuring him of her love, promising that he would never be alone again.

For a moment, she was overwhelmed by feelings she knew were his - fear of causing her pain, the loneliness of four centuries, the constant yearning for that which was forbidden, and then, swept up in an ocean of need, she plunged over the abyss into ecstacy, his name a cry on her lips as she convulsed beneath him.

And then she felt Rayven's body convulse, heard him whisper her name as he buried his face in the hollow of her neck.

Seconds later, she felt the quick sharp bite of his teeth at her throat, felt a wave of heat surge through her that blended with the shudders of pleasure rippling through every fiber of her being. Never had she felt such exquisite rapture. Warmth spread through her. She was drifting, floating in a hazy world of sensation, drowning in a sea of crimson silk...

"Rhianna? Rhianna?"

His voice drew her back to reality. She shook her head, wanting to sink deeper into the scarlet cocoon.

"Are you all right?" Rayven asked anxiously. "Did I hurt you? Rhianna? Rhianna, speak to me!"

Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open and she smiled up at him, her blue eyes glowing with pleasure. "I've never been more all right in my whole life, my lord husband."

Weak with relief, he stared at the two tiny puncture wounds in her neck. The hunger had not overpowered him. He had not savaged her throat, or drained her to the point of death. He had taken only a little, a single swallow, no more, and it had been enough. One swallow of her sweet essence had appeased his hellish thirst as completely as loving her had fulfilled his desire.

Relief washed through him. Perhaps there was hope for them after all. Gently, tenderly, he ran his tongue over the tiny wounds in her neck. They would be gone by morning.

Rolling onto his side, he carried Rhianna with him, holding her close. The musky scent of their lovemaking filled the room.

Rhianna sighed with contentment as she made lazy circles on his back. "Tell me what it was like in the beginning," she said, "when you were first made Vampyre."

"I've already told you how I was made."

She shifted in his arms, her bare breasts brushing against his chest. "I want to know more. I want to know everything."

Absently, his hand stroked her hair. "In the beginning, the hunger ruled me. I was terrified of the hunger, of the pain that engulfed me when I abstained. I killed and killed again."

He looked past Rhianna, remembering the beginning as if it had been yesterday, regretting the lives he had taken that he might have spared.

"Once I had been a knight, a man of honor. Now I was nothing but a monster ruled by fear. Each life I took added a burden of guilt to my soul, or what was left of it. I hated what I had become, hated the killing, hated the hunger that was my master. I longed for death, but I was afraid." He laughed softly, bitterly. "I, who had once been a knight without equal, lacked the courage to give myself to the sun and end the hell in which I was living.

"It wasn't until years later, when I met Salvatore, that I learned I didn't have to kill to live, that I could take a mortal's blood without taking his life. Lysandra had never told me that, never taken the time to explain that it wasn't necessary to kill to appease the hunger. But then, she enjoyed the hunt, the smell of fear. The kill."

He felt the old anger rise within him as he spoke her name. She could have told him so much, made his transition from mortal to immortal so much easier to bear.

"I'm glad she made you a vampyre," Rhianna murmured, snuggling closer against him.

"Are you?" he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"Indeed." Rhianna gazed into his eyes and saw herself reflected in the inky depths. "If she had never made you what you are, you would have died long ago, and I would never have known you."

"I love you, Rhianna," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "You will never know how much you mean to me."

"You could show me, my lord husband," she said with a beguiling smile.

His arms tightened around her, as though he feared she might disappear from his sight.

"I shall do my best," he murmured, brushing his lips across hers. "So long as I am able."