by Amy Miles
I can hear the laughter from below, raucous and bellowing, as the moon begins to shift in the sky. I pace my room, wringing my hands at my waist as I wait, pondering what awaits me.
My ankle throbs only a little, hardly enough to distract me from my anxiety. The shoes Emeline left for me are a tight fit. My toes curl painfully in the pointed tips. The heels are higher than my usual slippers and I find walking in them to be very trying.
“It will not do to fall flat on your face, Roseline,” I scold as I turn back from the window and freeze.
Standing in the door is a man of breathtaking beauty. His chestnut hair is long, as is the custom, and drawn back by a leather thong. Hues of copper appear as he steps into the light of the fire. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick with muscle, stretching the fine fabric of his shirt until the seams strain. His nose is rigid, his dark eyes deeply set. His brow shows not a hint of wrinkle; his eyes do not boast laugh lines.
“I startled you.”
It irks me that he is amused by this fact. “I did not hear you arrive nor open the door.”
“Indeed.” He steps closer, his gait heavier than most. The ruffles at the neck of his thigh-length crimson coat hardly hide the contours of his chest. “You should have caught my scent before I approached your stairwell.”
I can feel a blush rising into my cheeks as I lower my gaze against his mocking disapproval. I take a breath for the first time and feel heady as his scent washes over me: ginger and a dash of clove.
Why do these men all smell so wonderful? I silently swear as I realize the firm set of his lips has relaxed into a knowing smile. I clear my throat and take a step away from him. “I will remember your scent in the future.”
He leans in. My breath catches as his lips peel back from his teeth in a sultry smile. “See that you do.”
My skin feels slightly flushed as he leans back and offers a hand. “I am to escort you to the feast.”
Panic rushes in to steal away my embarrassing flush. I glance to the door and know that I am not ready to face what lies below. I look back to the man and scramble for some form of delay while I gather my wits about me. “I am afraid I do not yet know your name, sir.”
To my great surprise, the man tosses out his hand and dips into a deep and very formal bow. I have never seen a man do this before. It is customary for a lady to curtsy in the presence of a highborn male, but to see a man do the same catches me off guard. “My name is Amadeus of Wallachia. I am one of Vlad’s counselors from long ago.”
Vlad? Goose bumps rise along my arms as I gather together the cryptic pieces of truths that have been shared: Vladimir’s unusual clipped words that speak of his foreign ancestry, the fear seen in both mortals and non when he is angered, and the heads impaled along the castle walls.
My palm presses against my chest, the fluttering of my heart increasing as I realize the true identity of the man to whom I am now bonded. He may be known as Vladimir Enescue in this place, yet he was once known by an entirely different name: Vlad the Impaler.
Tales of his terror spread through the land, though that was many years ago. He was rumored to have died, his head severed from his body and presented as a gift. His body was laid to rest in a monastery that he himself had built. The building was later demolished. I believe there is little doubt as to who may have accomplished such a feat.
Did Vladimir fake his own death? If so, why? He had no need to flee, no need to fear the grave. With his speed and ruthless love for blood, he could have built an army the likes of which the world has never seen.
I stare at Amadeus, noting that though he may be clothed in muscle, his hands look as if he has never seen a day of battle. The skin of his palms are soft, unblemished by callouses. He was obviously a highborn when he was turned, though looks may be deceiving. I am unsure if his kind can even develop callouses.
I dip low into an appropriate curtsy, dropping my head and my gaze. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Roseline Drago—” I bite down on my tongue the instant I realize my mistake. Heat stains the bared skin of my chest and my lower lip quivers, waiting for a slap that doesn't come. He would not dare strike me, I realize. No one will touch me while I am under Vladimir’s protection, if it can even be labeled such a thing. I struggle to cease the trembling in my fingers, knowing my weakness will be noticed.
I would love nothing more than to hide in the corner of my room and forget the world beyond exists, yet Vladimir is waiting for me. I know the consequences of not obeying him are far worse than doing his bidding.
Amadeus watches me as I rise slowly. I thrust back my shoulders and raise my chin in attempt to look brave, forcing myself to meet his intense gaze. “I am Roseline Enescue, of Castle Bran.”
He nods in approval. “See to it that you do not forget.”
I hear the darker implication of his words and give him a curt nod. I will not forget, for doing so will surely bring pain. I may not know much of my husband. Nevertheless, I have learned one very valuable piece of information in the past day: he demands respect and fear from those around him.
“Shall we?” I accept Amadeus’s arm and carefully walk beside him, praying my ankles will hold firm in these ridiculous shoes. I suck in a tiny breath as we cross the threshold of my room and release it slowly as we descend to the second floor.
All of the doors are flung open this time. I peer into each room as we slowly make our way through the maze of stone and wood. I never dreamed of a place this vast. How did Vladimir build such a masterpiece in so little time? Surely after the rumors of his death spread he would have needed to go into hiding, though years would have passed and he would be free to emerge as a new man, boasting of youth and beauty.
Did he seize this castle from a lord? It would not surprise me in the least. I only wonder what price the former occupant had to pay.
My steps echo about me as we pass beneath flickering torchlight. Black sconces line the hall every few feet, casting eerie shadows to dance about our path. I lift my gaze from the shifting shapes, unwilling to let my imagination run rampant.
Amadeus tugs on my arm and I draw back. The laughter up ahead has doubled in volume. Only a few steps ahead, I spy a great, sweeping staircase that leads to the lower floor.
I turn to look at Amadeus and see a hard glint in his eyes as he leans in close. I stiffen as I feel his lips brush against my ear. His whisper is so low I am sure I am the only person able to hear it. “You are walking into a den of wolves. If they smell your fear, you shall not live through the night.”
I swallow roughly and nod as I draw back. “I thank you for your word of warning.”
A scornful smile darkens his face. “I did not do it for you.”
His grip tightens against my arm and I am drawn to the top of the stairs and realize the steps lead straight into a vast room. At first I am dazzled by the light. Hundreds of candles have been lit, held aloft by great circular candelabras. High enough that the heat does not affect the group below.
Dozens of men and women fall silent as Vladimir rises from his seat. Its back stands nearly as tall as he does at a raised dais near the head of the great room. Rows of wooden tables, long enough to hold fifty people each, run the length of the polished floor.
Lucien sits beside Vladimir. He swirls a golden goblet lazily in his hand, raising it to his nose to inhale the fine bouquet. I once saw my father attempt this when he was invited to dine with a nobleman who rode into Brasov on his way to Moldavia. My father lacked Lucien’s finesse.
Vladimir raises his own goblet and everyone follows suit. I can hear the thick sloshing of blood in the raised cups as silence permeates the room. “To my newest bride, the lovely Roseline of Brasov.”
“Here, here!” The cheer rises into the vaulted rafters of the room. Amadeus tugs on my arm and I stumble down the first step. He gives me a hard look and I right myself instantly. I force steel into my spine as I match his even steps. Twenty in all by my best count.
By the time we reach the m
ain floor, the fluttering in my chest has swelled. I can feel a tingle of embarrassment rushing through my body as I grip tightly onto Amadeus’s arm for support. He does not protest as my nails begin to dig into the fine material of his long-sleeve coat.
My steps echo in my ear as I approach the first of the men and women sitting farthest from Vladimir. The women gaze back at me with a range between mild curiosity and open hostility. Then men on the other hand seem far more intrusive than their counterparts.
“Look ahead, my lady,” Amadeus barks under his breath.
I lift my eyes and meet Vladimir’s, realizing how close I came to insulting him. I squeeze Amadeus’s arm in silent gratitude, although he does not respond. I do not fool myself into thinking he was attempting to aid me. Most likely he was thinking only of the punishment he is sure to incur if this presentation does not go smoothly.
Vladimir locks his gaze on me. I fight not to cower back from the intensity of his darkened gaze. The corner of his mouth tugs into a smile as he draws his cup to his lips and takes a long drink. My steps are drowned out by the sound of gulping as each person follows suit.
Lowering his goblet, Vladimir waves me forward. The instant Amadeus’s grip loosens against my arm, terror floods back in. I look to him, though he only looks back with a knowing and, if I am not mistaken, expectant smile. I realize with a start that his earlier warning about the effects my fear would have on the castle inhabitants was not for my benefit. He was goading me into it.
Why must these people be so cruel? I long to wrap my arms about myself and flee back to my room, to hide from these evil people. However, Vladimir is watching.
I exhale a shaky breath and press back my shoulders, determined not to let them win. Soft sniggers follow the small train of my dress as I approach Vladimir. He pushes back his chair and steps to the side to offer me his hand as I mount the two steps leading to the dais.
“Welcome, my dear. You look as lovely as ever.” He dips his face and raises my hand to kiss it.
The feel of his lips against my skin brings back memories of the night before, and I fight back the shudder of revulsion. How long will it be before he comes to me again? Will I have to share a bed with him each night?
The thought of being forced to lie next to this man turns my stomach, though I plaster on a smile as he lifts his head. Just to the side of him I spy Lucien staring at me, his eyes narrowed.
Lucien’s ever-watchful eye worries me. There is no lust in his gaze. No, there is something darker within the depths of his blackened eyes. Something promising pain and endless torture. I will have to be careful around him, I think as I fight to suppress a shudder and force my gaze away from him.
Vladimir takes my hand and leads me to an empty chair beside his. It is equally matching in beauty, the mahogany carved by an expert hand. The scrollwork alone must have taken ages to perfect.
The cushion is plush, and I am grateful for the softness after such an unbearable day spent on the hard wagon floor. With a broad smile seated on his face, Vladimir turns to his guests as I settle into the chair. “Let the feast begin!”
NINE
