"Would you bring me a glass of wine?" she asked. "Perhaps the vintage Lord Rayven prefers?"
A look of horror crossed Bevins's face, and then he shook his head. "It's a very strong vintage, miss," he said. "Might I recommend something more... subtle?"
"Never mind." Rising, she dropped her napkin on the table. "I don't suppose you know where he is?"
"In the gardens, I believe."
"Thank you, Bevins." She smiled at him. "If he asks, I won't tell him that you told me."
"He'll know," Bevins said, a note of resignation in his tone. "Best take a wrap. The night is cool."
Her feet felt suddenly light as she grabbed her shawl and left the house.
The maze, she thought. He would be in the maze.
Her footsteps slowed as she neared the entrance to the labyrinth.
Did she dare? Why not? Everything else had failed.
Feeling somewhat reassured by the darkness, she began to undress and then, wrapped only in her shawl, she ran toward the heart of the maze.
Rayven drew in a deep breath. He had known she would seek him out, had sensed her presence long before she stepped into view.
But he had not been prepared for the sight that greeted his eyes. Silver moonlight danced in her hair like fairy dust, caressed her face, her long slender legs. A lacy white shawl that revealed far more than it hid, covered her from her shoulders to her knees.
He stood up, his breath trapped in his throat.
She took a step toward him, then stopped, all bravado gone now that she was in the lion's den.
Hunger and desire rose up within him, hotter than the flames of an endless, fiery hell.
She was Venus rising from the sea, Eve before she tasted the apple.
"Rhianna." Her name whispered past his lips, soft as a sigh. The last desperate prayer of a dying man.
His cloak wrapped more tightly around him.
"Good evening, my lord," she said, and let go of the shawl.
It slid to the ground, pooling around her feet like star dust, and he was tempted to do the same, to drop to his knees and worship her beauty, to beg her forgiveness. Surely such a goddess could absolve him of his sins.
"Leave me, Rhianna." It was not a demand, but an urgent plea for salvation.
Slowly, she walked toward him, and it seemed as if the moonlight followed her.
"Rhianna..."
"I love you," she said softly.
"Don't." He tried to draw his gaze from her face, from the sheer beauty and perfection of her slender figure. Her breasts were high and firm, her belly flat, her waist so narrow he was sure he could span it with his hands.
She was the first completely naked woman he had seen in over four hundred years, the first woman who had professed to love him since he became Vampyre. The first who had begged for his touch.
He waged a silent inner battle, the last vestiges of honor and humanity at war with the monster he had become.
"My lord?" Her voice was soft and sweetly entreating as she reached a tentative hand toward him.
"Rayven?"
The sound of his name on her lips was like music to his ears.
"Rhianna, please." He forced the words past a throat gone dry. "Please don't do this to me. I'm afraid..."
Slowly, she lowered her arm. "You? Afraid?" Disbelief flickered in her eyes.
Rayven closed his eyes, an image of the first and only woman he had ever taken to his bed since he'd been made Vampyre rising in his mind. She had been nothing more than a harlot, a woman whose favors he had purchased to ease the hunger of the flesh. She had been young, but wise beyond her years. He had felt nothing for her, had thought he could satisfy his lust without arousing his hunger.
He had been wrong, and his error in judgment, in control, had cost the woman her life. That had been almost four hundred years ago, he mused. Fearful of the consequences, he had not sought a woman's affection since.
He had learned to control the desires of the flesh, to keep his lust under tight rein, until Rhianna.
Knowing he dared not possess her had made it easier to hold his passion in check. He had never, in his wildest dreams, expected her to want him.
Certainly he had never expected to find her standing naked before him on a moonlit night, silently begging for his touch.
"I can't." He took a step backward, and his cloak wrapped itself more tightly around him, as if to shield him