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PART ONE

Europe, 1795

Empty champagne glasses were all that remained of the wedding celebration. The guests had long ago faded into the mist that rose up around the castle walls. Ghosts of drunken best wishes echoed through the great hall, blending with the thunder that rumbled through the mountains outside. A gust of wind spiraled down the chimney, causing even the roaring fire in the mammoth hearth to pause and take heed. Wind and rain battered the tiny bedroom upstairs, howling between the turrets, and hammering at the stone exterior. Lightning sizzled the skies, far overpowering the solitary candle.

"Of all the nights to have a storm," Kirsten muttered grimly, setting aside the beaded gown of ivory silk, and searching for her cloak, "why did it have to be my wedding night?"

Inga, her governess, told her wedding rain promised good luck. But it seemed instead that the skies cried with her, as she made preparations to leave her father's home forever.

"Kirsten!" Her father's fist shook the door. "Valdemar is waiting."

"I'm coming," she shouted over the storm. She'd dawdled as long as possible. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she saw only pale hair and gray haunted eyes. She didn't look like a woman, more like a frightened child.

Her father hustled her down the sweeping staircase. And, with a perfunctory kiss, she was bundled into the waiting carriage.

Traded like a horse, from one man to another.

The carriage leapt into motion, throwing her against the dark figure beside her. With strong arms, he caught her and settled her back against the velvet cushions. A bolt of lightning cast him in silhouette against the brilliant sky.

Swallowing nervously, she studied the stranger beside her. They'd met only once before the wedding. With her father standing guard, he'd presented her with an intricately carved gold cross with a flaming ruby at its center to mark their betrothal. Eyes black as onyx had lingered on her every move, making her feel both desirable and vulnerable. At twenty-nine, he seemed terribly serious, and impossibly ancient.

Rumors clung to the young aristocrat. Servants whispered he was cursed. Local folklore spoke of a string of fiancées who perished under mysterious circumstances. The kitchen staff lay wagers she'd be dead within a week like his last wife.

Her father dismissed her fears as superstitious nonsense. He was anxious to marry off the last of his seven daughters. With her mother long dead, Kirsten had no choice but to obey his wishes.

Through the carriage's black curtains she could see only drifting columns of mist. The teaming rain absorbed all sound except for the rattle of the carriage's wheels. Now and then, shrubby trees thrust their glistening, leafless branches through the fog like questing hands.

A meager few feet beyond the narrow wheels of the carriage, the ground fell sharply away. Mercifully, the view was obscured by mist and rain. Kirsten crossed herself, praying the driver was sure of his grip on the reins.

After what seemed an eternity of bouncing and jostling, they rounded a corner and she gazed at last upon the crumbling battlements of Castle Berthold. Fog clung to the upper storeys like ghosts of past occupants. The stone was gray, rough from the wear of countless years. Yet, the stately oak door was richly lacquered and its brass hinges polished to a dull gleam.

The carriage clattered to a halt before the stone steps. Kirsten swallowed hard and uttered another prayer as Valdemar stepped down and offered her his hand. She was now mistress of that crumbling castle.

It was only six days since her seventeenth birthday.

Valdemar slipped a proprietary arm about her waist to guide her up the slick, stone stairs, past gargoyles whose vacant eyes seemed to follow her every move.

The pressure of Valdemar's palm against her back urged her forward. As they approached, the door swung open, dwarfing the thin figure whose lantern cast swaying shadows out over the steps. The gaunt, gray-haired man bowed deeply as she passed, then hurried off to oversee the unloading of her luggage.

Above the grand entranceway an iron chandelier blazed with a multitude of candles. The sheer size of the hall made her feel insignificant. Yet, Valdemar strode across the cavernous room with the confidence of a man well accustomed to wealth and vast rooms. He was at home, she realized of a sudden.

And so, God help me, am I.

"Let me show to your rooms," Valdemar said, ushering her forward. "I trust everything will be to your satisfaction."

"I'm certain it will be, My Lord," she whispered, with another glance at the high, vaulted ceiling that disappeared into shadow above the chandelier. His hand touched her shoulder, turning her back to him.

"Now that we are wed, Kirsten, you must call me by my given name."

"As you wish, Valdemar," she said, trying it out. It felt odd to address a virtual stranger with familiarity.

Valdemar smiled, and she caught a glimpse of the handsomeness which attracted so many women. He stroked her cheek lightly. "My name has never sounded so sweet as it does upon your lips."

His compliment embarrassed her, and she looked away. This was the first of many rites of courtship to come.

Merciful God, guide me through this night.

Seeming to sense her discomfort, Valdemar motioned to the sweeping, stone staircase leading to the balconies of the upper floors. "You will no doubt want a few moments to settle in and refresh yourself after your journey."

Kirsten twisted the gold band on her finger and stared out the narrow window at the teeming rain. Wrenched away from those who cared for her, the tall towers of Castle Berthold seemed like the walls of a prison. She had nowhere to run to, no way to escape down the craggy mountain path. Inga's account of the ways of men and women had been confusing and frightening, most of it having to do with pain and blood.

She was Valdemar's possession, and he could do with her as he pleased.

There was a quiet tread on the stone floor behind her. Kirsten whirled and looked up into eyes dark as night and even blacker curls that framed his forehead. His unruly, long hair was still tied back with a crimson ribbon. But he'd discarded the rest of his wedding finery, except for the wool pants and the white, silk shirt. The shirt, she noted with a sinking heart was open to the waist. Beneath the fragile fabric, muscle rippled like those on a lion at rest.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you," he said, and smiled. When he smiled, he was very handsome. His dark frown, however, was another matter.

"I didn't hear you come in," Kirsten said, trying to imagine those strong hands upon her. Up close he seethed with restrained strength. In spite of his approachable smile, she was terrified.

"I'm not surprised. It's thundering loud enough to wake the devil." Valdemar looked past her at the storm that raged beyond the narrow window. "Come away from the window, Kirsten, before you catch your death."

He was leading her toward the bed, she realized with a thundering heart. She thrust her heels firmly into the thick carpet that covered the cold, stone floor, but he pulled her along easily. The gold embroidered coverlet yielded under her, as they fell together into its softness.

Valdemar ran a hand over the golden fountain of her hair. His touch was feather soft and it brought every nerve in her body to life. His chest felt hard against the softness of her breasts, and the arms that gripped her might just as well have been made from iron.

Warm lips coaxed hers apart, and she shuddered in passion and fear.

"You're trembling," he said suddenly, looking intently into her gray eyes that swam with repressed tears. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing...sir." Dismayed, she felt the wetness of tears on her cheeks.

"Valdemar," he reminded her gently. "What are you afraid of Kirsten?" He asked, realizing suddenly. "Me?"

"I've heard..." she stopped abruptly.

Valdemar sucked in a long breath. "Oh, I know what is said behind my back." He regarded her shrewdly. "Do you believe what they say?"

"I hope," she said carefully, "that I shall not be dead within a week like your last wife."

She expected him to be angry, but instead he smiled. "Contrary to rumor," he said gently. "Greta died in a terrible accident. It was heart breaking. We had only begun our life together."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, staring at him wide-eyed.

"No need to be. It has nothing to do with you."

"Doesn't it bother you to know such awful things are said about you?"

"I pay no attention to the babble of fools." His hand traced the gentle swell of her breast. "I won't hurt you, Kirsten. I promise."

She watched his shirt fall into a heap of silk on the floor, follo...