a quarter past four in the morning, and Rayven still hadn't come to bed.
At midnight, she had crept downstairs, hoping to find him sitting in the study, but the room had been dark and empty.
She had found Bevins in the kitchen. He had been sitting at the table, a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders, a large glass of brandy cradled between hands that trembled. Feeling her gaze, he had looked up, then glanced away. But that one haunted look had stilled the questions on her lips. It was the look of a man who had glimpsed the fathomless pits of hell, had stood close enough to feel the heat of the flames.
She had turned and run back to the tower. That had been hours ago.
Where was Rayven?
It would be dawn soon.
Why didn't he come to bed?
Rising, she wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and left the tower. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she made her way down the narrow winding staircase to the first floor.
No lights shone.
Drawing the blanket more closely around her shoulders, she walked slowly toward the study.
She knew he was inside as soon as she put her hand on the latch.
"My lord?" She opened the door and peered into the darkness. "Rayven?" She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "I know you're in here."
"Go back to bed, Rhianna."
"It's lonely there without you."
"I cannot come to you tonight."
"Are you ill, my lord?"
He laughed softly, bitterly. "I am never ill, my sweet. Only sick in mind and spirit."
She took another step toward him. "Let me help you."
"There is nothing you can do, Rhianna."
"But..."
"If you care for me as much as you say, you will go back to bed." He drew in a ragged breath and released it slowly. "Go now, while I am willing, and able, to let you go."
"Rayven, please..."
"Leave me."
He spoke from between clenched teeth, his voice harsh, resounding with the power he held tightly leashed within him.
With a strangled cry, she turned and fled the room.
His side of the bed was empty in the morning. Alarmed, she drew on her robe and hurried down the stairs. "Bevins! Bevins!"
"Yes, milady?" He stepped out of the kitchen, looking much improved from the night before.
"Where is he? He didn't come to bed. The sun..." She shook her head, her eyes wide with a fear she dared not voice aloud.
"He is well, milady."
"Where is he? He hasn't..." She took a deep breath. "He hasn't left the castle?" He hasn't left me. The words, unspoken, seemed to hover in the air between them.
"No, milady."
She frowned. "But if he's here, where is he?"
Bevins hesitated a minute, as though deciding whether he should tell her or not.
"Tell me."
"He's in the cellar."
"The cellar!"
Bevins's gaze slid away from hers. "He takes his rest there, on occasion."
"In the cellar? Why ever for?"
"I'm afraid only my Lord Rayven can tell you that."
She turned toward the door, felt Bevins's hand upon her arm. "He will not like it if you go there."
"I'm his wife and the mistress of this castle," Rhianna said, surprised by the faintly imperious tone of her voice. "I will permit no secrets between my lord Rayven and myself."
Bevins removed his hand from her arm, then bowed. "As you wish, Lady Rhianna."
She met his gaze, an apology on the tip of her tongue. She had never treated Tom like a servant and was ashamed she had done so now.
Bevins shook his head. "You need not apologize, my lady." He pulled a long white candle from a drawer and lit it for her. "You'll have need of this." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a large brass key.
"And this."
Taking both candle and key, Rhianna turned away, her heart hammering in her breast as she made her way toward the long narrow flight of stairs that led down to the cellar.
A wave of cold air met her as she opened the door. For a moment, she stood at the top of the steps, looking down into the darkness beyond. Why had he chosen to rest down there? What would she find?
Summoning her courage, reminding herself that he was her husband, she descended the steps. Holding the candle higher, she saw several well-stocked wine racks, dozens of barrels and boxes, an enormous trunk covered with dust.
Lifting the hem of her nightgown with her free hand, she made her way deeper into the cellar. The air was dank and musty. Dusty cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling.