He had never ridden harder in his life. Desperate as he
was, he became aware of each slight sound and scent, every
sensation. The day was cold, crisp. The sky was blue. His
horse's hooves made thunder, striking again and again upon
the ground. Distant thunder, muffled by the thickness of
the snow. The cold seeped into him, though he was sweating
as he rode.
His horse's hooves seem to beat out words. We will not
make it. We will not make it.
But they had to try. He had sworn that he would allow
no evil to happen. He had sworn to love, to honor, to
protect. He had done so in secret. What had seemed logic
had been cowardice. And now ...
Now they would pay.
"Hey-yah!" he shouted, heels digging into the sides of
a fine animal already doing its best to travel the slick,
snow-covered roads.
"Sweet Jesu, Michael, you'll be the death of us all,"
Justin called, riding hard behind him with the others.
"There is no time!" he roared. "No time!"
"We'll be no good to the lass with broken necks,"
Justin said.
"Worry about your own, then, because I will trust my
neck to God."
"Aye, God be with us."
The snow flew. The ground trembled.
They rode. Harder, harder.
God was with them.
How had heunderestimated the evil of his enemies?
Michael wondered bleakly. It was incredible, chilling
beyond death, the lengths to which men would go out of
jealousy, bitterness and greed.
"Faster," he insisted, fear bringing out the sharp
command in his voice.
Again he felt the sweat that trickled down his chest
despite the whipping wind and the harsh chill. The air was
fresh, as fresh as the scent of her, clean, enticing,
invigorating. How her scent seemed to haunt him now,
despite the mad rush of their reckless ride, the whistle
and groan of the wind whipping in a tempest around them.
Snow flew; great chunks of it, filthy with dirt and grass,
as their horses tore up clods of it under their racing
hooves. His heart hammered in time, thudded, thundered,
and still the words rang in his head. We will not make it,
we will not make it, we must make it, at all costs, for if
we don't ...
If we don't ...
The fear that seized him was unbearable.
"We're nearly upon the valley," Raynor, another of his
men, riding at Justin's side, called out. "It's over that
hill. We've nearly made it."
Nearly. They were so close.
* * *
The sun.
How glorious, she thought, feeling it on her cheeks.
The day was cold and she so barely clad that she
shivered, yet still she felt the kiss of the sun on her
cheeks. What a wondrous feeling. Something that heated,
warmed, giving her the illusion, if only for precious
moments, of a deep, encompassing warmth of bliss and well-
being; the illusion of being cherished, secure ...
As she had felt with him.
But it was but an illusion, for the day was cold,
bitterly cold.
And she would feel real warmth soon enough.
Her arms ached from the ties. She had not felt them so
much at first. Now, they ached with a vengeance.
"You have not as yet begun to know pain."
Her enemy stood before her again, watching her eyes,
seeking her panic, her pleading. How he longed for it. And
God knew, if it would bring her release, she would promise
him anything, swear to anything. God help her, indeed, she
would do anything.
But she knew, meeting his eyes, that no plea,
no "confession" nothing whatsoever on her part, would
change things.
"You know I won't beg," she said simply.
"Aye, you're too stupid."
"You'd accuse me now of stupidity? I thought you
considered me far too clever for my own good."
"Not so clever. You are about to die hideously. Or do
you believe in miracles?"
Her eyes fell from his. God, how she wanted to believe
in miracles!
"I would never beg you, because I know that it would
change nothing, that you've no intention of sparing me,
that any plea on my part would be nothing but sheer
entertainment to you."
"So you stand calmly, thinking aye, there might be a
miracle. Salvation might come."
"It's the Christmas season, is it not?"
"For some, dear lass. For you ... I think not."
He wanted her to break. To burst into tears. To
confess, to plead, to throw herself in abject humility at
his feet. Well, she couldn't quite do that. Not bound as
she was.
But she would not cry or break or give a confession.
Her tormentor leaned against the stake. "He will not
come, you know."
"If he can, he will."
"There are no miracles. Ask me, and God, for
forgiveness."
"God knows my soul. And you should be asking my
forgiveness."
"I do what I must to preserve what is right."
"What is right? You betrayed me."
"You betrayed us all. As he betrays you now. You
turned your back on your heritage. Now ... ah, well, you
had your chances. Wait until you smell the fire," he said,
and he came close to her, fingers entwining in her hair as
he forced her to look down at the dry tinder and faggots
at her feet. "The scent. Oh, God, you cannot begin to
imagine the scent of burning human flesh. It's a sickening
smell. Enough to make the staunchest man vomit."
"Then, you must move on quickly from here. I wouldn't
have the scent of my burning flesh ruin your Christmas Eve
repast, good sir."
She saw his face change, saw the fury, but there was
nothing she could have done to prevent the blow he leveled
against her face. Her head rocked against the stake that
held her. Pain shot behind her eyes.
And still, she knew, she had not as yet begun to know
pain....
He stiffened then, knowing he should not have allowed
the others to witness his show of emotion, his lack of
control. He was a man of right; God knew, he followed the
law. To execute her was his duty.
He came very close to her face. His breath touched her
cheeks, replacing the warmth of the sun. "You do not begin
to understand. I will smell you roast, and I will savor
the scent. Indeed, I will take pleasure. And tonight I
will enjoy my meal with a gusto you cannot begin to
imagine. The taste will remain on my tongue forever."
"Forever may not be long," she noted, amazed that she
could offer him a smile.
He shook his head. "Poor, naive beauty that you be.
But are you so beautiful now? Hair tangled, cheeks
windburned, clothes in tatters, your body but bones for
the flames to ravage. Would he be so enamored now? What
fools you were. What fools."
He had said that he would come for her. He had sworn.
Sworn ...
Had he, like God, forsaken her? Had her sins been so
great?
No, he would come ... might still come ...
"I cannot help but believe you will one day find
yourself the fool," she whispered.
"That day will not be today," he said grimly, his
features, once striking, marred with cruelty and taut with
fury. "I could have had you strangled. I might have saved
you the agony. But you are a little fool, with your dreams
of love and the pleasures of the flesh. Even now, you
dream of his touch. But what you will feel is the kiss of
the flame, the lick of the blaze, the warmth of hell's
damnation."
He watched her eyes.
"Not even my death, my agony, will free you, will it?
You are the one who will suffer. You will spend your life
in bitterness. Eaten by flames from the inside out,
burning in the hell of your own hatred."
He looked as if he would strike at her again, but he
managed to turn away.
He stepped toward the crowd, raised a hand. The
murmuring grew silent.
"I have tried, pleaded, begged ... but she has no
words of remorse, she offers no prayer for redemption. God
help her, forgive her her transgressions against her
country. Pray for her, though it seems her tormented soul
faust return to the Devil, her maker. Let the fires
cleanse her, and ourselves, and let us then pray from our
hearts in the joy of the season we now enter, a time of
God."
The faggots were lit.
Flame quickly blazed before her. Around her.
She longed to cry out, to curse him. To tell the world
that the real monster was there before them, clad in a
cloak of law and respectability. She wanted to say that no
one was safe, no one who stood in his way, no one 'who
coveted anything he wanted ...
Instead she found voice and strength to say, "God
forgive you, sir. God grant you ease from the torture and
agony you will suffer again and again—"
She broke off, choking. How quickly the flames had
risen. Gone was the warmth of the sun, in its place the
growing heat of the fire. She could speak no more. Her
skirt was aflame. She tried to twist away, but it was no
use. She burned! Dear God, she burned, the agony entering
her lungs, her flesh.
She began to scream....
They rode over the rise and looked down into the
valley. And saw.
He closed his eyes, damning himself, raging within,
without.
He had imagined her scent.
He could smell it now.
On the air.
Oh, God.
"Jesus! Our Lord Father, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,"
Justin intoned.
"Help her, for the love of God, help her!" Raynor
demanded. "You know what you must do."
"God help me, I cannot."
"You must!" Raynor said.
"For the love of God!" Justin cried, tears in his
eyes. "Will you look? It is too late. It has gone too far.
You know what you must do!"
Tears streamed down Michael's face. He prayed, he
begged forgiveness, God's forgiveness—and hers. Split
seconds passed.
He knew what he must do.
"By God, by heaven, by hell, I swore ..."
He had sworn that he would come for her.
"By the angels, by God, by Christ, I swear, the time
will come—"
He broke off. Each second meant great agony.
He did indeed know what he had to do.
Chapter One
Present day Manhattan
It all started with the tarot cards.
And then the dreams of burning.
And of course the cat.
But at two o'clock on that Halloween afternoon, those
things were still in the future.
Jillian sat at her desk at Llewellyn Enterprises,
tapping a pencil on the wood as she stared at her new
design. She'd set out to create a contemporary cross, with
clean, sleek lines, to be available in yellow and white
gold, and platinum. Every year since she'd finished
college and joined the company full-time, she'd done a
special Christmas design, available in a very limited
quantity. By tradition, the invitation to purchase went
out November fifth, all orders had to be received by the
twentieth, and the pieces were delivered by special
courier one month later. She loved designing jewelry.
There was something so permanent about it. Pieces could be
handed down through generations. A beautiful piece could
be timeless—or speak volumes about the decade of its
creation.
This piece, however, wasn't saying what she had
intended at all. It wasn't that she disliked the design—on
the contrary, it was coming along beautifully. She simply
hadn't envisioned it quite this way.
"Wow, that is pretty. I guess you're worth your
paycheck." The voice, masculine and amused and coming from
over her shoulder, was so startling that she nearly bolted
out of her chair. The speaker was her cousin, Griff,
handsome and too charming at thirty. Tall and well built,
with sandy hair and hazel eyes, he wore Armani with runway
perfection.
She hadn't seen him enter her office. She had been so
intent on the drawing that she'd been oblivious to
everything else.
"Thanks."
Griff stretched out playfully on her teak desk—à la
1930s Hollywood movie. "Excellent, sweetie. Excellent. It
speaks `new millennium' loudly. Unfortunately, it appears
that the new millennium you're planning on promoting is
man's movement into the 1000s—Celtic-looking thing, isn't
it?"
"Hmm," she murmured.
He traced the pattern she had drawn, grinning
away. "Oooh, the old boy is going to go ballistic over
this one," he said flippantly, referring to Douglas
Alexander Llewellyn, her grandfather, his great-uncle, and
CEO of Llewellyn Enterprises. "Could his angel have failed
this time? He does think you're an angel, you know. He's
unaware that you're half angel, half fire-breathing
dragon."
"He realizes it completely. He's just very fond of
dragons. And, Griff, get your body off my desk. I have
work to do, and I don't need your scrawny self getting in
my way."
"How dare you?" he asked, in a tone of genuine
indignation. "My body isn't scrawny. It's practically
perfect—in every way. In fact, it's too bad we're cousins
and that we'd have horrible, two-headed-monster offspring,
or I'd let you see just how perfect."
Jillian wrinkled her nose and sat back, looking at
him. "Thank God that the possibility of two-headed
children is going to spare me. I shudder to think ,of it.
You're just going to have to share all that perfection
with someone else."
"Actually, we're only second cousins. Maybe the kids
would only be pathetically cross-eyed. Come to think of
it ..." he mused, "did you know that William of Orange
married his first cousin, Mary Stuart, and they ruled
together as William and Mary?"
"And they left no heirs," she reminded him pleasantly.
"Half the royalty of Europe was closely related.
Everyone out there was a descendant of Queen Victoria."
"And half the royalty of Europe was—and is—very
strange," she said. "Griff—"
"C'mon, the old boy is kind of like a king, and he'd
be so happy to think he was leaving his little kingdom to
those of his own blood, don't you think?"
"No, I don't think, and I'm thanking God at this
moment that surely you're not serious," she said, shaking
her head.
"You're just refusing to see the possibilities."
"Griff, was there a point to this visit?" she asked
pointedly, glancing at her watch. Grill liked to torture
her—good-naturedly, of course, or so he claimed, as did
the rest of her family members who were part of Llewellyn
Enterprises—Daniel, Theo and Eileen. Jillian knew that she
tended to be her grandfather's fair-haired child, despite
the fact that she hadn't risen to the head of the family
class on purpose, nor was she calling the shots at the
company now. But she had grown up with her grandfather,
she knew him best—and loved him best. Jewelry design was
her favorite part of the work, while Theo was a crack
marketer, and Eileen's expertise was public relations.
Daniel was the one with his hands on the reins, though—
right behind her grandfather's. He knew the business,
every aspect of it, and with the scope of their various
concerns, she was glad. Perhaps her grandfather could
control everything, but he was the only man who could.
People tended to think of the company as one giant prize.
It wasn't. It was a giant jumble of various enterprises,
and it took a variety of talents to keep it in its current
excellent shape.
Griff always told her that his expertise was looking
good and pretending to be busy, whether he was or wasn't.
And, of course, being charming. He had a point. She
couldn't help but like Griff herself.
Eileen was her first cousin, an only child like
herself. The boys were the grandsons of her grandfather's
brother, who had perished in the ever precious "Old
Country." Douglas had outlived not only his brother, but
also his two sons and his nephew, the boys' father,
Steven. Jillian often thought of how it must have pained
him to lose so many people he had loved so much. But he
never faltered; he went on, giving his devotion to the
remaining Llewellyns. No one had been forced into the
business; they had come because of the same fierce sense
of family pride and loyalty.
"You know," Griff said, wagging a finger at her, "you
could do a lot worse. I am handsome, witty, urbane and
charming."
"Of course I could do worse. But you're my cousin. So,
Griff—"
"Don't you remember playing naked together on those
fur rugs when we were babies?"
"Griff, we never played naked together on any fur
rugs."
"I guess not. If we had, you would have remembered."
She groaned and laid her head on the desk. "Griff,
what's your problem? You're cute, you're—"
"Cute? I want to be sexy and devastating."
"Okay, you're sexy and devastating."
"That's better."
"And I'm really trying to finish up and get out of
here today."
"I'm really here on an errand of mercy."
"Oh?" she queried carefully.
"It's Halloween. I didn't want you going home alone.
You know, poor little rich girl, all alone in the family
mansion. That big old place where none of the rest of us
are invited to live."
She leaned back, grinning. "You are such a pathetic
liar."
"Well, in a way, but not really. I don't want to live
in the family mansion. I like my privacy. And believe it
or not, the family fortune isn't my bag, though I do like
to live with a certain style."
"Griff, I have no fear of you ever changing."
He grinned. "I'm worthless, totally. And happy. And
smart enough to be grateful."
"You pretend to be worthless, but you know you're not.
Anyway, I need to get out of here."
"So you can sit by the fire like a little old lady and
hand out candy to the kiddies? No. Ever since Milo died,
you don't do anything or go anywhere. It's time for you to
start doing things again. You're not a mole. Not to
mention, you're far too young and ... yes, good-looking.
Why, Jillian, some people might even call you beautiful.
Thanks to good family genes, of course. And right now all
that beauty is just being wasted. You need to get out
again."
She felt a rush of air escape, her. It was odd how
life went on, but that, at strange moments, grief would
come sailing back and, like a blanket, wrap itself around
her. She had known what she was doing when she got
married. She had always known she would lose Milo.
And she knew that Griff really was here to help her.
So she smiled. "For your information, I am going out."
"A date?" he queried.
"Maybe."
"With Robert Marston?" he asked carefully.
"Robert Marston?" she repeated impatiently.
Robert Marston had just started working for the
company. He wore Armani just as well as Griff did, but he
came with sharp, very dark eyes and, in Jillian's opinion,
a sharper—possibly darker—mind. He was handsome,
intelligent, deep-voiced and very articulate. He had gone
to school with Theo, and spent the past five years with
one of the fastest-growing computer companies in the
world. He was the type of man who walked into a room and
drew attention. By his physical nature he seemed to exude
authority.
She had felt wary of him from the moment she had first
seen him—and that had actually been from quite a distance.
She didn't even know the color of those dark eyes of his.
There had been far too many rumors flying about for her to
willingly meet the man her grandfather had brought into
the business.
Was he stepping on her cousins' toes? Or were her
cousins in agreement with the situation, content for
Marston to be the one with the power? Somehow, she doubted
it.
"Why on earth would you assume I'm going out with
him?" she asked too sharply. She had wanted to convey
courteous impatience. She was afraid that her tone had
given away concern.
His grin told her that he had, indeed, heard far more
than impatience in her voice. "Well, are you going out
with him?"
"No, I haven't even met him yet. I saw him across a
room. And I don't believe in going out with business
associates."
"So?"
"I'm going out with Connie."
"With Connie?" he repeated. Was that relief she heard
in his voice? Connie had been one of her best friends
forever, way back to grade school. Connie was also her
administrative assistant. And since it was such a family
enterprise, Connie's husband, Joe, also worked for the
company. He was on Daniel's staff.
"Yes, Connie and I are going out. As we do every
Halloween," she reminded him.
He dropped his teasing manner for a moment and looked
at her seriously. "You're really going to go—"
"Christmas shopping, yes."
"As everyone does on Halloween," he responded with a
fine line of sarcasm.
"It's a personal tradition," she said with feigned
indignation. It was a strange tradition, she knew, and it
had started when they were little kids who went trick-or-
treating together. Now Connie had two daughters, a dog, a
cat, a bird and in-laws coming out the kazoo, so she
traditionally started her Christmas shopping on October
thirty-first, convinced that the best Christmas sales came
on Halloween, when everyone was doing last-minute
scrambling for a costume. They had a great time shopping,
then going trick-or-treating with the girls, and then,
usually, just spending the evening together checking out
the acquired candy.
"All right," Griff said. "Just so long as you're
really going out."
"I really am."
"Not to baby-sit or hand out candy."
"No." Her voice was steady. She wasn't baby-sitting,
and she wasn't handing out candy.
"And you're really going to have a good time."
"Really."
"Because if you came with me, I'd show you a good
time, you know."
"I'm sure you would."
He slid off her desk at last, brushing her cheek with
his fingertips. "I'd show you off to all my friends. You
are gorgeous, you know."
She caught his hand and squeezed it. "Thanks, Griff."
"Oh, by the way, Daniel asked to see you. His office."
"When?"
Griff looked at his watch. "Hmm ... a while ago, I
guess."
"Griff, why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm sure it's nothing." He placed his hands on her
desk and leaned toward her again. "Why don't you defy him?
Just go home!"
"Because it might be important," she said impatiently.
She stood and walked past him.
"Hey, Jillian?"
She turned back.
"Happy Halloween. And merry Christmas shopping."
Eileen Llewellyn paced in front of the storyboards set
up in her office, looking at the newest sketches for the
catalog campaign. Of medium height, with coal-dark hair
that was expertly styled to flatter her heart-shaped face,
she was elegant, efficient and a picture of total
sophistication. She liked business suits with tailored
jackets, short skirts and high heels. She walked with an
aura of confidence and authority. One look from her cool
blue eyes could silence a room. She had been born to soar
in the business world.
But at the moment she was agitated. She groped for the
pack of cigarettes on her desk, slipped one out without
looking and lit it, grateful in the back of her mind that
the company owned the building and she could smoke in her
own office whenever she damn well pleased. Exhaling a
cloud of smoke eased her aggravation slightly, but still,
she continued to stare at one storyboard, in particular.
It showed a woman in an off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved,
dramatic gown with a flowing skirt; it somehow had the
look of something from another time, another world. The
woman was draped across an iron chair near a fireplace,
and a man was bending down before her, his fingers
brushing the bare flesh of her throat while he set a
locket around her neck. It was a wonderful sketch.
Striking. Seldom could one piece of art speak so clearly,
especially in the commercial world. The artist was to be
highly commended. It conveyed everything it should. The
timelessness of a gift of fine jewelry. The pure romance
of such a gift. The class, refinement ... more. It was
wonderful. What she could do with this one sketch
alone ...
But, damn, it was irritating.
There was a tapping on her door.
"I'm busy," she called out sharply.
The door opened, anyway.
Theo walked in. He was a tall man, imposing in
stature. Though barely thirty, he had already acquired a
few gray strands in his dark hair. They gave an impression
of wisdom and authority. He knew how to use his physical
presence well, but he didn't intimidate her. She glanced
at him over her shoulder, irritation evident in her eyes.
"Theo, I said—"
"Yeah, I can see you're busy, puffing away."
"What do you want?"
"It's great, isn't it? I want to use it for more than
just the catalog. I want to pull some of the ads we've
already got for December and rush this in, instead."
She flashed him a frown. "Theo, it's way too late to
go changing the Christmas ads! December magazines are
already on their way out."
"I was thinking newspapers. And maybe a television
campaign, after Christmas."
"Television? It's a sketch!"
Theo was silent for a moment, arms folded over his
chest, eyes on hers. He smiled slowly. "We both know the
real thing isn't a sketch."