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  Mick was the one who pulled the lined curtains into place.

  "You need anything, you know where I sleep," he said. He hesitated at the door, then closed them in together.

  Claire took a deep breath. "Michael--"

  He cut her off. "You said you could do anything while you were with child, correct?"

  When she nodded, he looked at the bed as if imagining them on it. "Even . . ."

  She had to smile. "Yes, even that. But first, we need to talk--"

  He was on her in a heartbeat, pressing her back against the door, his hands rough on either side of her waist.

  "No talking," he growled. "First, I take you."

  His mouth clamped onto hers, his tongue going deep, and then there was a tearing noise--her blouse being ripped open. Oh, God, yes . . . He kissed her until she was dizzy for a reason other than her pregnancy, and sometime in the middle of the rush, he picked her up and laid her out on the bed. With smooth coordination, like he'd been planning the moves, he pushed his pajama bottoms down, pulled her skirt up, bit through one side of her panties, and then--

  He was inside.

  Her body arched up against him and she held on hard as she gasped. She was extra tight because she was only partially ready for him, but the moment he drove into her, she caught up with him. He pumped heavy and strong, but with care as well, the antique bed groaning under the force of his body as he took her.

  The glorious smell of him invaded her nose and she knew what this was about. This was him staking his claim to her in addition to loving her. This was a possession by something other than a human man and it was so totally fine by her.

  Michael came with a great clenching of his body and a roar that broke through the silence in the house. Loud as it was, their host had to have heard it so it was a good thing she didn't care enough to be embarrassed as her own orgasm swept through her.

  After it was over, they stayed locked together, intertwined, their breathing hard for precious moments.

  And then he said, "Forgive me . . . my love." He pulled back and smoothed her cheek while gently kissing her lips. "I fear I am rather . . . territorial when it comes to you."

  She laughed. "You be as territorial as you want. Coming from you, I like it."

  "Claire . . . what do we do about the future?"

  "I have it all planned out. I'm very good at strategy." She put her fingers through his long, luxurious hair, the red and black strands curling around her wrist and arm. "I'm going to fix it so your mother leaves you everything."

  "How?"

  "I redrafted her will every four months or so while she was alive and I'm going to do it one last time downstairs in Mick's study tomorrow morning."

  Yes, she was violating the professional code of ethics she'd sworn to when she'd taken her oath as an attorney. Yes, she could be disbarred. Yes, she was compromising her personal standards. But a great wrong had been done seemingly without remorse and sometimes to right something, you had to get your hands dirty. There were no more Leedses left, so there were no heirs to contest the will. And the philanthropies would be left in, so there would still be millions upon millions going to them.

  The wrong she would commit was the right thing to do.

  And the fact that Fletcher was dead? Just made it all easier.

  "She owes you," Claire said. "Your mother . . . your mother needs to take care of her son and I'm going to make sure she does."

  "You are my hero." The love shining in Michael's eyes was a benediction unlike any she'd ever seen.

  "And you are my sun," she replied.

  As they kissed again, she had the weirdest sense it was all going to work out, even though none of it made sense: a human woman who never thought she'd get married and have a family because she was too tough for that kind of thing. A male vampire who was both pliant and fierce--and who hadn't been out of a dungeon in fifty years.

  But it was right. They were right for each other.

  Although God only knew what the future had in store for them.

  EPILOGUE

  Nine years later . . .

  "Daddy! I'm coming for you!"

  Claire looked over the moonlit lawns of the Leeds estate and watched her oldest child, Gabriella, go into full stealth mode. Her waist-length red and black hair was a shroud in the night, her coltish legs long for an eight-year-old. She moved quickly and silently to the stand of fruit trees in the back garden, going over the grass like her father did with fluidity and grace--as was the way with vampires.

  Michael materialized behind his daughter and shouted, "Boo!"

  Gabriella jumped about twelve feet into the air, but recovered quickly, landing on her feet and tearing after her father while giggling. She tackled him, and the two went down in the grass, fireflies hovering above the tickling fest as if they too were laughing.

  "Mama, I'm finished," came a quiet voice from the left.

  Claire put her hand out and felt her son's little palm slide into hers. "Thank you for cleaning your room."

  "I'm sorry it got so messy."

  She tugged Luke into her lap. At six years old, it was clear that he took after his father's side as well and not just on looks. Luke was going to grow up to be what Michael and Gabriella were. He had an aversion to the sun; he was a night owl; and his hearing and eyesight were abnormally acute. The real tip-off, though, were the adult-sized canines that had come in already. Well, that and the fact that Luke and Michael smelled exactly the same, like dark spices.

  Claire kissed her son's forehead. "Have I told you I love you today?"

  Luke hid his face in her neck, as was his nature. "Yes, Mama. At dinner when you told Daddy and Gabby, too."

  "When else did I tell you?"

  "At lunch." Her son's laughter was coming through in his voice, but he was trying to hide it.

  "When else?" She gave his ribs a little squeeze to get him to loosen up.

  Luke wriggled in her lap and gave up the fight. "At breakfast!"

  The two of them laughed and she hugged her shy, gentle son close as Michael and Gabriella came racing up the lawn.

  Claire looked at her husband and felt a wave of respect and love come over her. He was so amazing, so steady and strong in his quiet way, taking care of her and the children with tender kindness. He was also a ferocious lover and vicious protector--as a vandal had learned a couple of months ago.

  She loved him even more than she had this morning, though less than she would tomorrow.

  "Hi," she said to him, as Gabriella took Luke's hand and led him off to show him the fresh buds on the tea roses next to the gazebo.

  "My love," Michael murmured, sitting down on the grass next to her and pulling her into his arms. "You are beautiful in this light."

  "Thank you."

  She had to smile, thinking that the beautiful stuff was because of him. As was the fact that she looked younger than she had when she'd met him and not just because she'd stopped working around the clock. The two of them had discovered through some kinky moments that he liked to be used for drinking and that his blood had a curious effect on her. It seemed to have halted her aging process--or at the very least slowed it down to such a degree that she hadn't aged at all in the last nine years. Had even regressed a little.

  There were a lot of unanswered questions. Michael still had no idea who his father was or whether there were any other vampires on the planet. They were both worried about their children's futures and the isolation at the estate and the fact that kids needed friends their own age. And health care was an issue because how could they take the children to a human doctor?

  Generally, though, things were better than imaginable. Claire managed the huge Leeds fortune. Michael homeschooled the children. Luke and Gabriella were thriving and healthy.

  It was a good life. An odd life, but a good life.

  And there was some news to share.

  "You're a very good father, you know that?" Claire said, brushing back her man's hip-length hair.

>   Michael kissed her neck. "You're a very good mother. And a perfect wife. And a brilliant businesswoman. I don't know how you do it all."

  "Time management is a wonderful thing." Claire put her husband's hand on her belly. "And I'm going to need to do a little more managing."

  Michael froze. "Claire?"

  She laughed. "You were very busy with me last month and it seems as if . . ."

  He hugged her tight and trembled a little. She knew there were moments when the abuse and imprisonment came back to him, and unfortunately it was typically when he got good news. All these years later, he still struggled with anything he viewed as lucky or miraculous. It made him feel, he said, as if he were in danger of waking up and having this new life of his be just a dream.

  "Are you okay? Do you feel all right?" he asked, pulling back, eyes going over her.

  "Fine. As always, I'm fine." The home births were not a walk in the park, but through Mick, who seemed to know someone who knew someone about all things, they'd found a midwife they could trust.

  Michael rubbed her tummy. "You make me so happy. So proud."

  "Right back at you."

  He kissed her as he always did, lingering before he pulled away. Funny, after all their time together, he still hated to part their mouths.

  "If it's a boy, I'd like to call him Matthew or Mark," she said.

  "And a girl?"

  "Michael can be a girl's name as well." Claire grinned. "And have I mentioned how much I like that name? Michael is a great name."

  Her husband dipped his head. With their lips touching, he said softly, "It might have come up once before. Yes, if I do recall correctly, that is your favorite name."

  "My very favorite."

  Claire smiled as she was thoroughly kissed by the vampire she loved. While she wrapped her arms around her husband, she thought, yes, they definitely needed another Michael in the family.

  BEYOND THE

  NIGHT

  by

  Susan Squires

  1

  Drew Carlowe fingered the heavy iron ring of keys in his breast pocket as he pushed into the Goose and Gander. Grim satisfaction suffused him. He was about to get his life back, along with a heaping portion of the cold revenge that had filled his dreams for so long.

  It had been nearly fifteen years since he'd set foot in the little tavern. He was making a huge wager that no one would recognize The Maples' young groom Andy. He had a mature man's bulk of muscle from hard labor now, and his face had grown more angular, more lined with care. A scar ran across his cheek from a cutlass. It stood out whitely against the tan provided by the years at sea. His eyes looked much bluer, his hair much blonder with his new coloring. Young, guileless Andy Cooper, lover of horses and Sir Melaphont's daughter, was long gone.

  The September evening was unseasonably hot and the tavern had all its doors and windows open, beaming light and raucous laughter into the darkness. It still smelled of yeasty ale and yesterday's cabbage and mutton special, as it always had. It was crowded with the working classes and a couple of gentleman farmers. The noise subsided at the entrance of a stranger.

  He bore their scrutiny and stepped to the bar. "A pint of ale and a beefsteak," he ordered. He didn't ask for a private parlor. The little inn didn't have one. He'd have to eat his dinner in the taproom with everyone else. So be it. He was famished and the risk had to be faced sooner or later.

  "Yes, milord," the owner said, eyeing the cut of his coat and the polish on his boots. Barton didn't recognize him. That was good. Drew would have known Barton anywhere. The long fringe around his head never had made up for the bald pate that shone above it.

  "Just plain Mr. Carlowe," he corrected.

  "Carlowe, is it?" old Mr. Henley wheezed, sidling up to him. "Rumor 'as it ye mean to buy Ashland."

  "Signed the papers this afternoon." The keys against his heart felt like a triumph.

  The attention of the room was riveted on him now. Barton slapped down a tankard of foaming ale in front of him. "Too bad," he muttered.

  Drew frowned. He had expected them to be impressed. Ashland was second only to The Maples in grandeur hereabouts. It must be big news that it was purchased at last after standing empty for so many years. "I'll renovate of course." It had been half-ruined even when he was nineteen. "And I'll need a staff." That would be good for the neighborhood.

  "Don't think nobody will work up at Ashland," old Mr. Henley observed, looking pointedly at his empty glass with a rheumy eye.

  Did they know he was an imposter? Was that why no one would work for him? He'd studied carefully to remove all traces of the stable in his accent and avoid any lapse in his taste and style. "Why not?" he challenged.

  "Th' place is 'aunted," Old Henley said, cackling.

  Drew relaxed. Those rumors had been rampant even when he was a boy. "Every empty house has ghosts according to the locals." He motioned to Barton to give Henley a pint.

  "This house 'as just got th' one," Barton said as he turned the spigot on the barrel. "A beautiful young woman."

  "Perhaps I'll enjoy having a beautiful ghost." Drew grinned. He hadn't had a woman in a long time. Once he'd cashed out, he'd saved himself for Emily.

  "Not when ye run screaming from th' 'ouse because th' ghost 'as sucked yer blood," a farmer guffawed. There were nods around the room and chuckles.

  Drew smiled. "Vampires suck blood, not ghosts."

  "I'll wager ye won't spend a full night in th' place," Barton said. He wasn't smiling.

  A little game of "intimidate the stranger." Every village played it.

  "I intend to go up there later tonight. Shall we stake a pint of beer then?"

  Barton set a pint down in front of Old Henley. "Ye're on."

  There were things he wanted to know that the house agent hadn't been able to tell him. What better place for information than the Goose and Gander? "I'm sure my ghost can't compete with Sir Melaphont's daughter for beauty. The agent, Bromley, was singing her praises." Actually the agent for Ashland didn't know Emily, which could be thought strange since he worked for Melaphont. Melaphont acted for the family that owned Ashland, since they lived in some obscure corner of world. The Carpathian Mountains, wasn't it?

  Old Henley cackled. "Pretty much th' same, they are, I'd say."

  That brought knowing chuckles along the length of the bar.

  A thought occurred. He was shocked he hadn't thought of it before. "Is Miss Emily Melaphont married?"

  "Not any more," Henley remarked, pulling on his ale.

  "Is . . . is she resident here abouts?"

  "Why, Mr. Carlowe? Lookin' for a 'eiress?" A man to his left smirked over his tankard.

  "No need." Drew smiled. "Made my fortune in shipping." True. Technically. "Always good to have young ladies of birth in the neighborhood, though. Gentles the place."

  Old Henley looked thoughtful. "She's still 'ere. Ain't never left."

  His heart expanded. He had known she'd wait for him. The years away had been painful. But he couldn't come back until he could hold his head high. Until he could look her in the eye and ask her to come away with him, knowing he could provide for her in the fashion to which she was accustomed. It was a terrible risk he took now. But he was tired of living a half-life of regret, the victim of another man's spite. He didn't want to be a victim any more.

  "Barton," he called then cursed himself. The man had never introduced himself. But no, it was all right. He might have heard the tapster's name from a customer. "Can you deliver supplies up there?" He'd have to make do for himself until he could find servants.

  Barton looked uncertain.

  "Surely someone has the courage to leave a package in the kitchen if they go in the bright light of day?" These superstitious villagers were far more annoying now than when he had been one of them. "I pay quite handsomely."

  "I can get a boy to leave a box by th' door, I guess, though we're short'anded because of th' influenza." He motioned to a table where the serving girl was settin
g a sizzling beefsteak. "I'll send one up tomorrow, if ye're still 'ere."

  Drew laughed and took his drink over to the table. "The devil himself won't keep me away."

  Freya sat in the window seat, looking out through mullioned windows over what once were the formal gardens. They were overgrown with weeds and wildflowers now. The full moon rode low over the hot night. It was only nine o'clock. The darkness stretched ahead. Moles were making heaps. A fox trotted over the meadow beyond the gardens that stretched down to the cliffs and the sea. She saw well in the dark, of course, much better than humans. The fecund, salty scent of the sea hung in the still air. Not a breath was stirring, making one wonder how the cypress trees had been bent away from the cliff's edge. Freya caught herself. She didn't want to wonder anything. She wanted to sit, quietly, as she always did these days, not thinking, or feeling. They said time healed everything. What did they know about time?

  She daubed the perspiration at the place between her breasts with a handkerchief. Even the diaphanous white gowns she wore seemed oppressive in this heat.

  She heard the horse long before she saw it, of course. She stood, sighing. One of the young men from the village must have accepted a dare to stay in the house. She thought they had tired of that after the last one had wet himself as he scrambled for the door. He was so pathetic she hadn't even bothered to take blood from him. She hadn't been in need, having fed several nights earlier in Tintagel. That had been more than six months ago and she'd had peace and quiet since then. Or as much peace as her thoughts left her.

  Tonight was a different matter. She did need blood. Perhaps it was as well that hubris and ignorance had sent this callow youth her way. She'd frighten him, take what she needed, and send him back to the village blubbering of ghosts with two drooling bites on his neck but otherwise none the worse for wear. That would keep others away.

  She rose and turned into the room. The dust covers were still on the furniture. She hadn't bothered to remove them, though she'd been here a year. The only mark that she spent her days here was the bed, which was neatly made, and actually had clean sheets on it.

  The horse did not pull up at the front portico but headed round for the stables. That was odd. Usually they left their horses tied near the doorway so they could be away quickly. She glided out the door and down the dusty hall. Dust was the worst of her situation. It made her sneeze. And spiderwebs, of course. Hastening down the servants' stairway and out through the kitchens, she saw a light flicker on in the stable.