he hadn't been asleep for long, maybe only a few minutes, when Sydney heard a voice calling her name. She ignored it for as long as she could. Rylan had worn her out, and she did not want to move.

She opened her eyes, wondering drowsily if he were calling her in his sleep. His relaxed body imprisoned her: his huge leg was locked over her at the knee, his arms were hooked around her waist, and his chin rested on her shoulder. She shivered as she remembered how fiercely he had possessed her. She, who had never been touched by another man, had been taken from head to toe.

"Sydney!" the insistent voice called again. "Sydney, are you up there?"

It was Peter standing below the window. Sydney eased out of bed, full of dread, and hurried to look. He was standing between the rocks and boulders below, drenched to the teeth.

"Let me in the house, Sydney," he demanded when he saw her shocked face. "I have come to rescue you."

"Oh, dear." She glanced in trepidation at Rylan stirring in the bed. "Can you come back in a few hours, Peter?" she whispered. "It's the middle of the night."

"Come back?" he said indignantly. "Audrey has told me everything. I'm not going to leave you in this den of vice another minute. Meet me at the door, Sydney."

"Keep your voice down, Peter. You'll disturb his lordship's hounds."

Rylan sat up, rubbing his eyes. For a moment Sydney was distracted by the sight of him, a big sensual beast who had made her his own a short while ago. A frisson of desire went through her, disturbing in its power. She remembered the way she had responded to him during the night. The way she responded now as his gaze traveled over her body in patent ownership. She quivered, aware of the sweet throbbing between her thighs, evidence of his possession.

"I love you so much," he said with his irresistible grin. "Come back to bed. I'm missing you."

"Sydney," Peter whispered through his teeth. "Get down here now."

"Just a bloody minute," she said, turning back to the window.

Rylan raised a dark eyebrow. "Cranky, aren't we? Come back to bed and eat some apple pie. You're going to need your strength for what I have in mind."

The sheet slipped off his shoulder, revealing a sinewy torso of steel. He gave her a heavy-lidded look. Sydney caught her breath, seduced by the primal desire in his eyes. The man had far too much power over her. But she would learn, she vowed. She would make him plead for her touch, too.

"I'll feed you, Sydney," he said in a husky voice.

"Are you coming or not?" Peter hissed.

She swallowed a groan. "I have to put on my robe first."

Rylan gave a chuckle. "What for? And why are you shouting, Sydney? You'll have the Chynoweths pounding at the door to rescue you."

Sydney looked down at Peter again.

He was hugging himself in the wind. His face looked blue. She could practically see icicles forming on his ears. "S-S-Sydney."

She shut the window and approached the bed. "Rylan, what would you do if Peter showed up on the doorstep and demanded I go away with him?"

He took a deep swallow of brandy. His eyes gleamed with anger. "Kill him on the spot."

She nodded slowly. "That's what I thought. Rylan, I'm going to run downstairs for a few minutes."

He hooked his fist around her knee and drew her to the bed. "Why?"

"To—to get plates for the pie."

He pulled her onto her knees beside him. He ran his callused fingertips up and down her spine. Sydney drew a breath, shaking with desire. "I don't know if I can stand being away from you that long," he whispered in her ear.

A pebble bounced off the windowsill. Rylan glanced up, his eyes narrowed.

"Listen to that wind." Sydney slid off the bed and grabbed her dressing robe before she could succumb to him again. "Wait here."

He stretched back on the bed like a muscular animal awaiting its prey. "I don't have anything to wear except my drawers. Bring some clothes from my room on your way back, Sydney. And hurry. I want you back soon."

She threw on her robe and rushed downstairs. Frankenstein greeted her at the bottom of the stairs, tail thumping in recognition. The animal, accustomed to its master's nocturnal ramblings, obviously thought they were going to have an adventure.

The dog's friendly demeanor turned to one of aggression, however, when Sydney opened the door to let Peter in from the cold.

He pushed around her with impatience, going straight to the port decanter on the sideboard. His straight blond hair was slicked back from his scalp. His frock coat and tweed trousers were sodden and clinging limply to his lanky frame.

"How did you get here?" Sydney whispered.

"In my yacht." He looked at her, his mouth pinched white. "Which ran aground, I suspect, in the same cove as Jeremy's. I swear I was lured there by a fiendish blue light. This is the devil's own cove."

Sydney couldn't suppress a shiver. "Didn't you hear the bells warning you away?"

"What bells?"

He took two drinks before he could control himself. Then he turned to her, frowning in surprise. "Why aren't you dressed?" He eyed her in suspicion. "You look like a harlot with your hair like that, as if a bird were making a nest on your head."

"It's two o'clock in the morning," she said, her heartbeat loud and uneven.

"Another night in this house." He cursed. "How could you be so stupid, Sydney?"

Sydney frowned. "Lower your voice."

"The hell I will."

"You'll be sorry if you bring his lordship downstairs," she said. "He's… a very physical man."

"A physical man, is he?" Peter lowered his glass. He looked her up and down again. "How do you know what kind of man he is?"

Sydney pulled her dressing robe together. Frankenstein was eyeing Peter like a Sunday pork roast. "Don't use that tone of voice, Peter. You're getting on the dog's bad side. He doesn't much like people."

"Damn the dog," Peter said.

"Sydney?" Rylan's deep voice rumbled from the top of the stairs. "What's taking you so long? Are you all right? It's lonely up here without you."

Peter stared at the opened door in shock. "Oh, my God. Audrey was right. You've been ruined, haven't you?"

Sydney reached down to grab hold of Frankenstein. "Yes, Peter, it's true," she said. "I've been ruined. Only a short while ago, actually. It was a lovely experience, and I don't regret it. Your timing is terrible."

Peter swore at the top of his lungs. He came up to Sydney and gripped her chin between his fingers. "I should have known not to look for a bride in the gutter. You're practically a peasant—a professor's brat, a nobody." He pushed her away, breathing hard. Sydney thought he actually looked hurt by her betrayal, as if the cad hadn't deserved it.

"A peasant?" She was incensed at this insult to her respectable background and her hard-working father, who had always warned her Peter was no good. She let go of Frankenstein and folded her arms in satisfaction as the dog bounded forward to bite Peter on the ankle. He hopped backward into the sideboard and knocked over the crystal decanter.

The glass shattered on the polished wooden floor, and port spread in a puddle. Frankenstein lunged in the air and leapt onto Peter's chest, shoving him into the sofa.

Pinned to the cushions by the massive dog, Peter let out an unearthly yell.

"Shut up, Peter," Sydney said. She couldn't imagine how terrible it would be if he refused to leave. "You're frightening Frankenstein."

Peter made a strangled noise in his throat. "Frankenstein?"

Sydney hauled the dog off the sofa. "He was only trying to protect me."

An angry male voice joined the conversation. "He was doing what he was trained to do."

Sydney spun around, still holding the hound by the scruff of the neck. Peter struggled to rise from the sofa. Frankenstein's tail wagged like a windmill.

Rylan stood in the darkness of the doorway, looking as intimidating as a man can look when he's wearing only a pair of drawers and holding an apple pie. Fury cut deep lines in his face.

Peter stood up slowly, straightening his trousers. "DeWilde. I see you haven't changed your habits at all."

Rylan glanced at Sydney. "Neither have you. You're still the same snake you always were."

"And you're as debauched as ever," Peter said in a contemptuous voice. "Living in this grave of a house, writing about demons and ghosts." He stared at Sydney. "Ruining young women. My friends warned me not to marry beneath my class, but I suppose I had to witness it with my own eyes. Only a whore would have let this happen. I can't blame it all on you, DeWilde, as much as I'd like to."

Rylan strode up to the sideboard. "If you say another word about Sydney, I'll break your jaw. I've told her what I know about your late-night vices."

"What has he told you, Sydney?" Peter demanded.

She drew a breath. "He said you're a snake and… that you take women home in your carriage."

Peter managed a smile. "Champion of lurid literature and fallen women. What a calling." He turned to Sydney. "And you believe him. How could you do this to me? You didn't exist until I found you."

"Peter." She faced him squarely. "You were always trying to improve me, to change my clothes and the way I behave. I was never good enough for you—"

"You're more than good enough for me," Rylan interrupted.

"Thank you for that," she said. "Now be quiet, Rylan. I want to tell Peter what I think."

"How could you do this to me?" Peter said again, sounding really baffled. "How could you give up a man like me for someone who makes a career of creating ghouls and monsters? He's so… different."

"I know about you and your paramour Lady Penelope," Sydney said with a hurt dignity that Rylan couldn't help but admire. "You are a liar and a philanderer, Peter."

Peter glared at Rylan. "You told her this?"

"No." Rylan's eyes narrowed. "But if I'd known, I probably would have. She deserves the truth. She deserves to know what a snake you are."

Peter grabbed Sydney's hand, examining her bare fingers. "What happened to my betrothal ring?"

"Well, I—"

"I threw it out the window," Rylan said.

"The window?" Peter said in horror. "You threw my great-grandmam's heirloom out the window?"

"When Sydney and I were in bed," Rylan said, pulling her hand away from Peter. "It was getting on my nerves when I was trying to—"

Sydney dapped her hand across his mouth before he could finish.

"I've had enough of you, DeWilde." Peter began to circle him.

Rylan began to circle too, Sydney caught in the middle. "Snake," Rylan said. He made a hissing sound. He wiggled his hand up and down. "Serpent. Asp. Adder. Viper. Cobra."

"Python," Sydney added.

Rylan grinned at her. "Thank you."

"I belong here," Sydney said to Peter, who wasn't listening at all. "I was shipwrecked that night for—oh, golly, you're not going to fight over me, are you?"

Peter threw the first punch.

Sydney ducked.

Then Rylan threw the pie.

Sydney had never seen two grown men fight before. She expected it at least to begin on a note of chivalry, but this was an embarrassing spectacle, not at all romantic like knights jousting in a tournament over a lady's honor.

It was more like two bears wrestling in the woods. They grunted like gladiators. They called each other dreadful names. They swung and missed, knocking into furniture. Rylan practically pushed her across the room to clear the field. Then he went into action, his sculpted body moving with raw power. Sydney had never seen such a display of strength.

She caught a Wedgwood plate that bounced off the bookshelf. Mrs. Chynoweth, running in to investigate the noise, rescued an inkpot before it ruined the carpet.

Sydney was reluctant to break up the fight. She didn't want to ruffle Rylan's pride, and, more important, she didn't want to get hurt by a flying fist.

They were destroying the room, though. Rather, Rylan was destroying the room, using Peter's head and shoulders like a plough. She winced as Peter crashed into the card table, staggering around to swing at the air where Rylan had stood seconds before.

Mrs. Chynoweth watched in dismay, but she didn't interfere either. Broken furniture was a small price to pay for his lordship's happiness. The housekeeper worried that he spent too much time chasing ghosts and ghouls. In her opinion he should be chasing his own children and telling bedtime stories.

A wife would bring balance to his life. A wife would keep him home at night performing husbandly duties, instead of his dangerous midnight investigations on the moor. Mrs. Chynoweth firmly believed that the dead should be left alone.

"Smack him a good one, my lord," she shouted, banging her fist into her palm.

Sydney looked at her in disbelief.

It didn't take Rylan long to emerge as conqueror. He'd wanted to impress Sydney with his strength, and it would have been too easy to knock Peter out cold with the first punch. He'd needed an outlet for his anger, and Peter's face served that purpose well.

Sydney didn't look all that impressed. Rylan wondered if it had something to do with the fact that he was wearing only his drawers. It tended to put the situation in a peculiar perspective.

"Did you kill him?" she asked anxiously, peering down at Peter.

Peter grunted, spread out flat on the carpet.

"I guess not," Rylan said, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

He started to look for the port decanter, but stopped as someone pounded loudly at the door. The sound echoed in the silence.

"Who the hell—"

A few seconds later Mrs. Chynoweth ushered a dozen or so of St. Kilmerryn's populace into the darkened drawing room. The housekeeper lit a lamp, and a rosy-gold glow illuminated the battle scene.

"Who are these people?" Sydney whispered in bewilderment, backing into Rylan, whose arms shot out to engulf her without hesitation.

"That's the Reverend Ellis, miss," Mrs. Chynoweth said. "That's Lewis, the stonecutter, and—"

"What is everyone doing in my house at this hour of the morning?" Rylan demanded.

The Reverend Ellis cleared his throat. "What are you doing entertaining company in your drawers, my lord?"

" 'Tis Samhain morn, my lord," Lewis said, taking a seat on the crowded sofa. "You were to lead the expedition to exorcise the warlord's troubled ghost from its grave."

"Samhain," Rylan said. "I thought the storm would keep everyone in bed."

Which was where he certainly had wanted to be.

Mrs. Chynoweth twisted her hands together. "Surely you'll not pursue this folly now that you and Miss Windsor are—"

"—engaged to be married," the Reverend said forcefully. "I'll be performing a November wedding, I see."

The housekeeper turned to Sydney. "Please tell his lordship to abandon this dangerous plan to release the warlord's spirit."

"The warlord?" Sydney asked. "Are you talking about the Blue Knight?"

Lord Tregarron answered her question from the sofa. "Yes, miss. The medieval warlord who watched from the cliffs for the princess who never arrived."

"Her ship was lost at sea," Lewis added, settling his grubby self into the cushions.

Mrs. Chynoweth gave a sigh. "The lady was the love of his life."

"How sad," Sydney said. "What happened to him?"

"He locked himself up in the castle that used to stand on this very cliff," Lewis said. "He brought all manner of wizards and witches from Wales and Scotland to bring her back. He cast spells in the cove to summon her from her watery grave."

Mr. Chynoweth snorted. "A loose screw, I say."

"Why don't you let the poor man rest in peace?" Sydney asked Rylan.

"He isn't in peace," the Reverend said. "His soul is in torment."

Rylan shook his head. "This isn't my idea. I'm just going along to witness a supernatural event for research purposes. I neither believe nor disbelieve in these things."

"The warlord's spirit is caught between two worlds," Lewis explained. "He's haunting the cove and causing all these accidents at sea. Seven people have died so far this year."

Peter sat up, cradling his jaw. "Oh, God," he said. "I'm mortally wounded."

"Who are you?" Lewis asked in astonishment.

Peter wiped a wedge of pie off his face. "The Duke of Esterfield."

Lewis snorted. "And I'm the Queen of England."

Sydney leaned down to whisper to Peter when Rylan wasn't looking. "If I were you, I'd stay out of Rylan's way. There's no telling what he'll do once he gets his clothes on."

"Where will I go?" Peter asked in bewilderment.

"I don't really know," she whispered. "I don't think I care, either."

Mrs. Chynoweth began to bustle around the room, assessing the damage. She looked up as Sydney offered to help her.

"I feel responsible for the fight, Mrs. Chynoweth."

"Bless you, miss." The housekeeper lowered her voice. "But I'll clean up in here. You just take care of his lordship. Persuade him to stay home. 'Tis dangerous to one's soul to be in a graveyard at cockcrow. Use your influence to keep him safe."

Sydney didn't say anything to this suggestion. She simply slipped out of the room when the housekeeper wasn't looking. Peter had taken her advice to escape, and all she could say was good riddance to the snake. Rylan had already rushed upstairs to his room to dress in something more suitable for a ghost-laying.

Sydney had the same idea. She yanked on her rose woolen gown and jacket. She jammed on her half boots. She wasn't going to miss a supernatural event for anything in the world.

Besides, she felt an inexplicable empathy for the poor warlord who had grieved to death for the woman who'd almost been his wife.

Sydney didn't know why, but she had to be present when his soul was given release. Her engagement to Peter was a thing of the past, and she felt free to do something dangerous if she liked. She wasn't going to be a duchess, and if she wanted to lay a spirit, that was her affair and no one else's.

The ghost-laying party walked by the light of tin lanterns across the treeless moor in the eerie aftermath of the storm. Sydney rode the Reverend's pony, imagining that someone—something—was observing their every move. The hair on her nape prickled, and she sensed a restless energy in the air. Her knee barely hurt, and she kept her attention focused on Rylan standing beside her.

It was dark, and the wind whistled around the stone circle they passed. They trampled over dead cotton grass and gorse. The villagers walked in a solemn group. No one uttered a word.

This was dangerous business, this disturbing the dead, and Sydney was in the center of it. She sensed she was going to play an important part.

At the top of Holy Hill was the chambered burial cairn which, legend said, contained the remains of the lonely warlord. Because it was believed he'd been possessed by demons at the time of his death, he'd been denied a resting place in the churchyard.

He'd lived such a long time ago, and he'd slain giants to please the king, but his own people had buried him in this prehistoric place. No wonder he couldn't find peace.

No one had ever been able to stand for more than three seconds on the rocking stone that guarded his grave. Children and daring young people had tried over the centuries, only to be thrown off balance to the ground. It was as if a malevolent spirit resided within the lichen-covered granite. A few victims swore they'd felt a powerful hand push them away.

Yet when Sydney stepped upon it, the rocking stone remained still.

"Dear lady," the Reverend said in alarm. "Pray come down off that devilish contraption."

Sydney tossed back her hair. She didn't feel the least twinge of fear, but something compelled her toward the chambered burial cairn. She had to get inside. A power stronger than common sense called her.

"What are we going to do?" she shouted down to the others.

Rylan took out his pen and notebook, standing apart from the others in his black cape with the heavy dog at his side. He was the largest man in the group.

"Come down, Sydney," he said, frowning up at her. "You're going to fall."

The villagers crowded in a nervous circle around the hill, watching the sky for the first glimmer of dawn. A farmer's wife had brought a phial of water all the way from a holy well in Ireland. The church bell ringer had carried a large silver bell, presumably to ring at the ghost. An old man crossed himself. Rylan recorded every detail.

"Come down, Sydney," he said again, his frown deepening.

She shook her head. "I don't want them to hurt him."

"Don't be silly," he said. "He's a ghost. He can't be hurt. He's already dead."

She sighed. The wind stirred her hair into her face, and her skirts whipped around her ankles. A tingle of foreboding crept down her spine. The burial cairn beckoned her.

"I think someone should warn him," she said. "Poor ghost."

"For heaven's sake, Sydney." Rylan started to climb up after her, looking annoyed. "You've been reading too many of my novels."

"I wouldn't go any nearer that burial chamber," the young minister said in panic. "The creature might turn violent if you block his return to the grave. He might take it on himself to possess your body."

Rylan raised a brow at the thought of a warlord possessing Sydney's body. It would make her an interesting wife and bedmate.

He put away his pen and notebook. "Sydney, you're going to falL Come down this instant."

"I can't," she said. "He wants me."

"I want you, too," he said sternly, irritated by the distant look in her eye.

"Well, you can have me," she called down. "Later."

He started after her. Sydney threw him a grin and disappeared down into the tunnel that twisted into the underground cairn.

The stone rocked crazily when Rylan stepped on it, but he jumped down after Sydney, dropping into a dark vault that smelled of earth and mold. He didn't know what had gotten into her, but all of a sudden, he was frightened and—well, hell, he was jealous, although he didn't know why.

"Sydney?"

He followed her down into a hidden chamber. In the false twilight he saw her standing before a huge stone block that barred further exploration. The tomb of the warlord was believed to lie beyond this closed door. It had been sealed for centuries.

A series of loud thuds sounded behind him. Lewis and the Reverend had braved the rocking stone to join them. The two men landed only inches behind him in the musty crevice between the burrows. Sydney was standing a few feet in front of them, the strangest look on her face.

"This is as far as anyone has ever gone," Lewis said, out of breath and rising stiffly. "That block wouldn't budge for the Lord Himself."

"Move aside, Sydney," Rylan said, eyeing her warily as he approached the cairn. "You'll not want to get bumped when we break into the tomb. This is men's work."

He braced his shoulder on the sealed block and shoved with all his might. The two other men added their support. The block didn't give an inch, men or not.

"Well, that's it, then," the Reverend said, sounding relieved. "I'll sprinkle the holy water here and hold the ritual on the hill. 'Tis almost cockcrow. Hurry, my lord. If we fail, we must endure another year of the warlord's wrath."

"Come on, Sydney," Rylan said, reaching for her hand. "The so-called Hour of Demons is here."

"Demons," she said to herself. "He wasn't a demon at all."

The Reverend climbed back up the stony crevice and began reciting in Latin from the top of the hill. His voice sent a hollow echo through the cairn. Sydney was staring at the sealed block of stone.

"We're going to miss it," Rylan said, curious despite himself. "Let's climb out."

"I'll be right there," she said.

She wasn't though. The moment Rylan left, she touched the stone block that barred the way into the cairn. A jolt of electricity shot through her arm. The block swung open beneath her tingling fingers, and the stone suddenly heated to such a degree that she pulled her hand back in reaction. She stared in awe into the black musty tumulus.

"Rylan," she said in a low voice.

He looked back over his shoulder, halfway up the stones that led outside. The Reverend's voice boomed like a thunderbolt. The wind blew through the standing stones above like a warning. A strange tension vibrated in the air.

He saw her standing at the entrance to the tomb, and for an instant he felt the invisible power that pulled her inside. His fear returned in force. Something was taking her from him. The warlord, or whatever lived inside that grave.

"Sydney," he shouted. "Don't go in there."

The Reverend's voice rose into the wind. Daybreak loomed a breath away. Some of the villagers raised their clubs and pitchforks to protect themselves against the ghost who would be forced to return to his grave.

"Don't be silly," Sydney said. "I just want to look."

He jumped down to stop her, but he was too late. She had stepped into the shadowed chamber. Whatever waited for her in that darkness was claiming her, and Rylan couldn't reach her.

The Reverend's voice grew louder. "In the name of the Father and of the Son…"

The earth rumbled for endless seconds. The sky took on an unearthly burgundy-gold glow. The wind rose to a howl. Somewhere outside a woman fainted, and everyone was convinced that Good and Evil were battling for a soul, with the outcome undecided.

"Satan, be gone from this man and let his tormented spirit rest!" the Reverend said in a trembling voice.

"Lord be with us!" Lewis shouted in fright.

Rylan scrambled down the dirt and rocks and reached the stone block just as it swung shut on Sydney. He caught a breath of the air within, stale and redolent of decay. He saw her standing in the tumulus with a smile on her face before darkness claimed her. It was the smile of a woman who was asking for trouble.

"No," he shouted, throwing his whole weight into the block. "No."