I look into her eyes

and find forgiveness there

and for a moment -

one brief, sweet shining moment,

I see an end to my despair.

It had been a mistake to touch her, to kiss her. Having once tasted of Rhianna's sweetness, he could think of nothing else. He sought her out at supper, sipping from his wineglass while he watched her eat, listening with rapt attention while she told him how she had spent her day. She had a bright mind, a keen intellect, and a delightful sense of humor. Bevins had told him she was a quick study, that she was making remarkable progress.

Rayven saw the results for himself each night when she read to him, as she was doing now.

He sat in his favorite chair, staring into the flames of a fire that did little to warm the coldness within him, listening to her read. The sound of her voice washed over him like silken sunshine, softer than eiderdown, hotter than the flickering flames that danced in the hearth. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he watched her, wondering how it was possible for her to grow more beautiful with each passing day. Her cheeks bloomed with color, her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed with youth and life. The firelight cast golden shadows on her profile. Mesmerized like a love-struck youth, he basked in her nearness, in the breathy sound of her voice.

Several minutes passed before he realized that she had stopped reading, that she was staring back at him.

"Is something wrong, sweet Rhianna?"

"No, my lord."

"Why have you stopped reading?"

A faint smile played over her lips. "I stopped some time ago."

He frowned. "Will you tell me why?"

"Because the story is over, my lord."

He looked at her for a long moment, feeling quite the fool, and then he laughed.

Rhianna stared at him. She had rarely seen him smile, never heard him laugh. It was a wondrous sound, deep and rich. And contagious. She felt a wave of answering laughter rise up within her, mingling with his, until the walls echoed with the sound.

And then, without knowing quite how, he was kneeling before her, and the laughter died in her throat.

"Rhianna." He took her hands in his and kissed each one. "Do you know how long it's been since I laughed like that?"

"No, my lord."

"A very long time," he replied, his gaze burning into hers. "Longer than you can imagine."

"Then I'm glad I made you laugh."

"What can I give you in return?"

"My lord?"

"A new dress to match the color of your eyes? A chain of fine gold?"

"I want nothing, my lord. You have already given me too much. And I..." She looked away. "I have given you nothing in return."

Guilt, sharper than the thorns on the roses she loved, pricked his conscience. She had given him far more than she imagined. More than he had any right to take.

"Name your prize, sweet Rhianna. You have but to name it, and it's yours."

"Anything I want? Truly?"

"Truly."

"I should very much like to have a mirror in my room."

He sat back on his heels, his dark eyes suddenly shadowed and cold. "A mirror?"

She nodded, her expression eager. "You've given me so many fine things. I want to see how I look."

"Very well," he said, his voice tight. "You shall have one."

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked, her eyes filled with confusion.

He shook his head, then rose slowly to his feet. "Go to bed, girl."

She stood up. As always, his size surprised her. He moved with such stealth, spoke with such quiet, she often forgot how very big he was. Tall and broad shouldered, he towered over her. "Will you not tell me what I've done to displease you so?"

He turned away from her to stare into the fire. "Go to bed." His voice was brittle, like frozen glass.

"Very well, my lord."

He listened to the sound of her footsteps, muffled by the thick carpet, as she crossed the floor.

"Good night, my lord."

He could feel her watching him, waiting for a reply, heard her sigh as she opened the door and left the room.

Rayven stared into the flames. He could sit in this room and pretend he was a man like any other. He could pretend she was his, that she was there because she wished it. He could surround himself with riches, but he could not hide from the truth any more than he could walk in the sunlight, or see his reflection in a mirror. Such simple things, forever denied him.

The mirror that Bevins delivered to Rhianna's room the following afternoon was quite the most exquisite thing she had ever seen, a full-length looking glass set in a frame of burnished oak. And in the top corner, etched in spidery script, were her initials.

"Oh, it's beautiful," she murmured. She ran her hands over the wood, traced the letters of her initials.

"Lord Rayven will be pleased that you approve."

"Oh, I do! Is he home? I must thank him."

"He is unavailable, miss."

"He's never here during the day," Rhianna said, pouting. "Where does he go?"

"I'm sure I don't know, miss."

"You don't?"

"No, miss." The hesitation in his voice told her he was lying. "Will you be coming down for dinner, miss?"

"No, I don't think so." She turned away from the mirror. "I think I'll take a nap."

"Very good, miss." With a slight bow, Bevins left the room.

Rhianna went to the window and stared down into the gardens. She'd been here for months, and only now had she realized she had never seen Rayven during the day. Why had Bevins lied to her? Was Rayven here? Upstairs, perhaps?

Curious, she crossed to the door, opened it, and peeked out. There was no sign of Bevins. Tiptoeing from her chamber, she made her way down the corridor toward the east tower.

Her footsteps echoed loudly in her ears as she climbed the narrow winding stairway. Ninety-nine steps.

She was breathless when she reached the top.

Pausing to catch her breath, she glanced down the long corridor. There was no light up here save for what little filtered through the shuttered windows set in the thick stone walls.

On tiptoe, she made her way down the hallway. She stopped at the first door, her hand trembling as she reached for the latch. The door opened without a sound.

Peering inside, she saw that the room was filled with furniture - brocade sofas, chairs covered in faded embroidery and horsehair, curved settees covered in damask. There were tables in all sizes and shapes, chairs made of rich dark oak and mahogany, delicate stools and marble-topped commodes. All were covered with a layer of dust, as if they had not been used for decades.

Closing the door, she crossed the hallway to the opposite room. It, too, was crowded with the furniture of another era.

The next room was filled with works of art: statues, paintings, bronze figures, vases made of crystal and porcelain, china figurines, a huge sculpture of a raven hewn in black wood. These, too, were covered with dust and cobwebs.

Ahead was the tower room itself. She knew, without knowing how she knew, that this was Rayven's personal lair. Moving cautiously, she approached the door. She pressed her ear to the smooth wood, and when she heard no sound from inside, she put her hand on the latch.

Heart pounding, she opened the door and stepped inside. There was no light at all in this room. Heavy black velvet draperies covered the windows. Crossing the floor, she drew back the curtains, then turned and looked around. The room was empty.

Puzzled, she let the draperies fall back into place. Why had Rayven forbidden her to come here? What possible reason could he have for not wanting her to see rooms filled with old furniture, or this empty tower?

From out of nowhere came the chilling sensation that she was not alone. Unreasoning panic rose up within her, driving her out of the room.

She ran down the hall, down the stairs, a silent sob rising in her throat as images of darkness and death swirled through her mind.

She ran blindly through the castle until she reached her chamber. Inside, she locked the door, flung the windows wide. Sitting on the bed, she clutched a pillow to her chest and stared at the sunlight pouring through the window, hoping it would dispel the darkness that seemed to enfold her like thick black smoke, permeating her very soul. And in the center of that darkness, she sensed a loneliness so deep it broke her heart.

Rayven sat across the table from Rhianna, idly swirling the liquid in his goblet, watching the crystal catch the candlelight. "We're going to the opera next week. I want you to go out and buy something suitable to wear."

"My lord, surely I have no need of more gowns."

"Do it to please me. Something blue, to match your eyes, I think."

"Very well, my lord, if it will please you."

"So, what did you do today?"

Rhianna swallowed hard, her gaze sliding away from his. "Today, my lord?"

"Yes, today."

"I... Bevins brought me a new piece of music."

"Will you play it for me?"

"If you wish, though I've not yet mastered it."

"You are a most biddable creature, sweet Rhianna."

"My lord?" She looked at him askance, not knowing if he was praising her or complaining.

Rayven considered her over the rim of his glass. He had never kept a woman who was so agreeable, one who asked for nothing, who seemed to take genuine pleasure in his company. It stroked his male vanity to think she cared for him, even a little. The others had done his bidding, but he had been ever aware of the fear in their eyes, the lust for what his wealth could buy. He had given them whatever they asked for, had smothered them in gifts - jewels, furs, costly raiment - deeming it a small price to pay for what he took.

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her through half-lowered lids. He had sensed her presence in the tower, had smelled the lingering fragrance of her perfume, her very essence, when he woke that evening. He had never kept a woman who dared defy him. For that act of courage, he would buy her a sapphire necklace to match her new gown.

"What else did you do today?" he asked silkily.

Fear rose up in her throat. He knows, she thought frantically. He knows what I've done, and now he'll punish me.

"You've been here some time now," he remarked in that same deceptively mild voice.

"Yes."

"I trust you've gone exploring."

"You said I might have the run of the castle, my lord," she replied, a definite quaver in her voice.

"So I did. Save for the east tower."

Rhianna nodded, unable to speak past the fear coagulating in her throat.

"You remember my warning?"

She nodded, then crossed her arms lest he see her trembling.

"See that you do not disregard my wishes again."

"Yes, my lord."

He smiled at her over the rim of his goblet as he drained the glass. Rising, he offered her his hand.

"Come," he said. "I wish you to play for me."

"Thank you, my lord."

His brow lifted in a gesture she had come to recognize as mild amusement. "For what, my sweet Rhianna?"

"For not being angry with me. For being so kind."

"Kind?" He laughed softly, the rich full sound filling her with sensual pleasure. "Of a truth, no one has ever called me that before."

"Indeed, my lord?"

"Indeed, my sweet."

"Then I shall do so often, if it would please you."

"You please me," he replied. And so saying, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, kissing her with an intensity that drained the strength from her limbs even as it seemed to draw all the air from her lungs.

She stared up at him, feeling strangely lightheaded, when he drew his lips from hers.

Rayven smiled down at her, his dark eyes burning. "Never doubt that you please me very well."

Long after Rayven had left her, she could feel the heat of his lips, the urgent hardness of his body against hers. Though she had never known a man, she was not totally ignorant in the ways of men and women, but she had never dreamed that such pleasure was part of it. The women in the village whispered of putting up with a man's base nature, of enduring the hardship of the marriage bed. They had never mentioned the wonder of it, the fluttery feeling in one's stomach.

Earlier, he had listened to her play, dismissing her mistakes with a wave of his hand. It had been an easy piece; normally, she would have played it without hesitation. But she couldn't forget his touch, couldn't keep her hands from trembling with the memory of being in his arms, of touching him. Even now, it seemed as if the imprint of his long lean body had been burned into hers.

It seemed an effort to move, yet at the same time she seemed to be floating over the floor, up the stairs.

In her room, she removed her shoes and stockings, dropped her gown over the back of a chair, and slipped into bed.

She dreamed of him that night, dreamed that he was there, in her room, sitting beside her on the bed, his dark cloak floating over her like a shroud as he bent his head toward her. In the uncertain light of her room, his eyes seemed to glow like smoldering coals. She felt his hands grip her shoulders, felt his lips at her throat, felt the familiar lassitude steal over her as his teeth grazed the tender skin of her neck. Sensual pleasure mingled with pain. She moaned softly as his hands tightened on her arms. And then his voice, whispering in her ear.

"Only a dream, sweet Rhianna," he murmured, his voice hypnotizing her with its power. "Only a dream..."

Her eyelids fluttered down, but not before she saw him rise from her bed like a dark mist. She blinked once, and he was gone, as if he'd never been there.

But, of course, it was only a dream.