She stared up at the ceiling. It was becoming increasingly obvious that she was not fit to call herself a Llewellyn, let alone a Vampire slayer. But could she go home and leave the queen unprotected from the malevolence that surrounded her? Verity shivered. She couldn’t leave. Too many people were depending on her. She might not be Rosalind, but she was the best hope the Druids had of defeating the Vampire and saving the queen.
Another thought wormed its way into her head. If she went home, would Rhys feel obligated to accompany her or would he stay at court and do his best to mitigate the damage of her loss? He didn’t want to go home and face Sir John—but then she didn’t particularly want to do that either. Her grandfather hadn’t sanctioned her removal to court and had probably already written to her ordering her home. She traced the mark of Awen on her wrist. If she told him that she bore the sacred mark, would he let her stay? Would he even have a choice?
A knock on the door had Verity sitting up. “Come in.”
Olivia poked her head around the door, her expression disgruntled. “Can you help me with this gown? I cannot attach the sleeves properly.”
Verity beckoned Olivia inside and closed the door behind her. “You should not be asking me to help you. We are supposed to be enemies.”
Olivia threw her a sideways glance. “We
are
enemies.”
“Who are working together for the good of the queen and her unborn child.” Verity studied the knot of laces at Olivia’s shoulder. “What did you do to this sleeve?”
“I don’t know.” Olivia hunched her shoulder. “I hate women’s garb. It is so constricting.”
“It certainly can be.” Verity set about untangling the ties.
Olivia smirked. “But it also has its uses.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sir Rhys was very taken by my appearance yesterday.”
“Rhys was?” Verity forced a smile. “I didn’t notice.” She finally attached the undersleeve and arranged the folds of the gown over it. “There, now your sleeve is straight. Do you need me to look at the other one?”
“Rhys said you were a widow.”
“I am.”
“You seem too young to have been married.”
Verity raised her eyebrows. “Most girls marry young—you know that.”
“Not Vampires.” Olivia shook her head. “Imagine being tied to a man that you dislike for five hundred years or more.”
As she moved behind Olivia, Verity fought a smile. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Why have you not remarried?”
Verity kept her gaze on Olivia’s embroidered black sleeve. “I will only remarry for love.”
“Oh.” Olivia pulled up the oversleeve of her gown to allow Verity to check the ties under it. “What about Rhys?”
“What about him?”
Olivia turned her head until she could meet Verity’s gaze. “Do you not love him?”
Verity’s fingers stilled. “I have known him almost my entire life, so of course he holds a very special place in my heart.” That at least was the truth—a truth that she might have to cling to for solace after Rhys walked away from her again in his pursuit of the unattainable.
Afraid that Olivia, in her usual direct fashion, would start asking more questions, Verity patted her sleeve. “All is secured now. You need not fear anything will fall off.”
“Thank you, Verity.”
“Now you must leave, and remember, we are not friends and you should not be seen with me.”
“I’ll try to remember.” Olivia hesitated. “Lady Rochford worries me. I suspect she is not quite sane.”
Verity glanced sharply at Olivia. “I agree. Have you told Elias and Rhys?”
“Should I?”
“Of course you should. If Lady Rochford is mad, we need to keep a close eye on her. Goodness knows what she could do to the queen.”
Olivia nodded. “I’ll go and tell Elias right away.” She paused with her hand on the door. “Are you supposed to be guarding the queen tonight?”
“I should imagine so.” Verity smothered a yawn. “It is the feast of Lughnasadh and I was hoping to celebrate it. But I doubt I will be able to keep my eyes open if I have to stay up half the night with the queen.”
“Then you will be pleased to hear that Queen Jane intends to spend the night with the king.” Olivia smiled. “I heard the news just before I had to come upstairs and attend to my sleeve. All the queen’s ladies are delighted because they will have some time to themselves for a change.”
Olivia bobbed a curtsy and left the room, leaving Verity in a state of indecision. If the queen was indeed going to stay with the king, mayhap she would get a chance to celebrate the festival with her people. She imagined the freedom of dancing under the moonlight, her hair loose, her movements unrestrained by the heavy garments a woman had to wear for modesty’s sake.
Verity surveyed the beautifully embroidered apple blossom on her underskirt and put it on over her petticoats. It would be good to celebrate. At least at the festival she could be herself and thrust aside the burdens of being an inadequate Vampire slayer and a woman who cared far too much for a man who would never really notice her.
Rhys frowned at Elias. “Are you sure about this?”
“Almost certain. It seems Lord Thomas Seymour is not a true Vampire but a Vampire’s servant.”
“What does that mean?”
Although they were sitting by themselves in a quiet part of the king’s public apartments, Elias lowered his voice. “In rare cases, an extremely powerful Vampire can form a blood bond with a chosen human, who then becomes a kind of extension of the Vampire, sharing his thoughts.”
“As Anne Boleyn did with George?”
“Yes, before she turned him into a full Vampire. In this case, as I understand it, Lord Thomas Seymour has
agreed
to the bond.”
“Why would he do that?”
Elias shrugged. “Power, of course.”
“What kind of power?”
“The ability to use Vampire mind tricks on other humans and even to draw their blood from them.”
Rhys nodded. “As Christopher did to defeat Sir Marcus Flavian.”
“He told you about that?” Elias’s smile was chilling. “Yes, with Olivia’s help they bled the human to death.”
Rhys inwardly shuddered at the mental image. “Should I assume that the Vampire who has allied himself with Lord Thomas Seymour is the same one Verity has felt in her mind?”
“Yes, I believe it is the same Vampire. He calls himself Janus, although I doubt that is his real name. Styling himself after a two-faced Roman god does seem somewhat fitting.”
“Then we are in a fix.”
“Aren’t we always?” Elias looked up and over Rhys’s shoulder. “I see Lady Verity approaching. Would you be so good as to share my news with her?”
“I will. And you will continue to investigate this Vampire?”
Elias’s face lost its humanity and displayed the cold predator beneath. “Rest assured I shall. No Vampire
I
created must grow beyond my keeping.”
Elias strolled away and Rhys readied himself for Verity’s approach. He still had no idea how the Vampire community knew she had the mark of Awen when the vast majority of the Druids did not.
“Lady Verity.” He bowed and took her hand. “Are you well this fine morning?”
She avoided his gaze and her smile was faint. “I’m quite well, Sir Rhys. Did you wish to talk to me?”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her farther along the walkway and away from the chattering courtiers. She was looking remarkably beautiful this morning. He realized just how much he’d begun to look forward to seeing her and how much she brightened his mood. He patted her fingers. “Are you still distressed about the mark of Awen?”
“I’m not distressed. I have to accept it for what it is.”
He glanced down at her. “I was thinking more about the fact that the Vampire community knows about it. Do you think it is time to tell your grandsire?”
She glanced up at him, her blue eyes steady. “Mayhap. Indeed, I thought to go home today.”
Rhys stopped moving as if he had slammed into a wall. “Go home?”
She bit her lip and walked away from him. “My skills are not strong enough to be needed here.”
“That isn’t true.” Rhys strengthened his voice. “I need you to stay here.”
“Why? You have told me many times that I lack the ability to be a slayer.”
He met her gaze and felt ashamed of himself. “I was wrong. You are more than capable. I should not have compared you to Rosalind.”
Verity laughed mirthlessly. “I have been compared to Rosalind my whole life, and I’ve always been found wanting.”
He knew how that felt, never to be good enough, always to be seeking approval that never came. He took a deep breath. “Verity, I do not find you wanting. Please stay. I want you to stay.”
“Why?”
He stared at her. What was it about women that made them want to drag a man down into the murky depths of emotion and say how they feel?
“Because you are a Llewellyn. A true Vampire slayer.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that all?”
“No, I . . .” He paused to gather his scattered thoughts. “I would miss you.”
She sniffed. “About as much as you’d miss your horse.”
“Far more than that. You are beautiful, and courageous, and honest to a fault.”
“And stupid—let’s not forget that.”
He bowed his head and stared at her delicate slippered feet. “I do not know what you want me to say.”
She didn’t answer, so he had to look up at her. He slipped into Welsh. “All I know is that if you leave me now, I will feel your loss in my heart for the rest of my life.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “And I am tired of losing those I care about, Verity. Please stay and give me a chance to put things right between us.”
She studied him for a long moment and then smiled. “All right. I didn’t truly wish to go.”
“You didn’t? Then . . . why?” He caught her hand and dragged her up against his chest, eased his fingers under her chin so that he could see her face. “Then why put me through all this?”
“Perhaps I just wished to hear you say that you needed me.”
He bent his head and kissed her until she kissed him back. “Oh, I need you, my lady.” He kissed her again until she was panting. “Do you like to hear a man beg?”
“You haven’t begged, yet.” She pushed at his chest and, aware that others might be watching, he reluctantly let her go. “The queen is spending the night with the king, and Elias has agreed to watch over them both. I doubt our Vampires will want to meet the king.”
“So?”
She swept him a deep curtsy. “I am going to celebrate Lughnasadh. Mayhap I will see you there.” She walked back toward the safety of the crowds, leaving him standing alone.
How could he have forgotten it was the first of August? He’d been so angry with his gods for allowing Christopher to claim Rosalind at Beltane that he’d avoided most of the Druid rituals ever since. Lughnasadh was a celebration of the first harvest, a time to give thanks for the abundance of nature. It was a quieter night than Beltane or Samhain, but Rhys had always enjoyed it.
He pictured Verity dancing around the fire and his whole body reacted with a primitive yearning to share the ritual with her. For Rosalind’s sake he’d willingly cut himself off from so much, but he carried the pain of that separation deep inside him. He stared after Verity and considered the promise of her words. Mayhap he should return to his religion and find some solace and comfort there.
Verity wrapped her cloak around her body and made her way through the chattering crowds to the altar that had been set up between the pair of standing stones. A ritual circle had been drawn in thick white chalk around the peaceful glade and bread and cider had been placed at several points of the sphere to signify the plenty of the harvest. She bowed low to the two priests dressed in white robes and then placed on the altar a handful of blackberries and wildflowers she had picked on her way through the fields.
“Within your circle I offer my gift to you.”
One of the priests bowed. “And may the gods grant your wishes true.”
Verity bowed again and backed away. What did she wish for? She glanced up at the full moon. She wanted to be loved, but didn’t everyone? Did that even count as a wish? She directed her attention toward another point in the circle where two large goblets of mead sat on a flat stone low to the ground.
Both goblets contained special herbs to ensure that any Druid who wished to participate in the night’s revelries would enjoy the experience. The goblet on the right also contained a fertility potion; the one on the left, a potion to prevent conception. At Lughnasadh it was common practice to offer both, unlike the fertility celebration at Beltane, which was far more lascivious.