“You’re damned serene,” he growled, “considering that a demonic army is whetting their swords as we speak.”

Livia’s eyes blazed, and she whirled away. “Serene? How very mistaken you are. It’s taking my very last measure of control to keep from tearing this chamber apart.”

He did not feel assuaged. He was edge and temper and a furious, hungry energy. And all the while, a voice at the back of his mind dripped its acid whisper. It isn’t enough. Nothing you do will stop the coming doom. Even if she wanted your protection, you cannot keep her safe.

It was better when he cared for nothing and no one.

A scratch sounded at the door, and at his command, servants came trooping in. They carried a bathing tub and pitchers of steaming water. Bram directed them to place the tub by the fire, and fill both it and the tub in the closet adjoining the chamber. A footman and a maid also set trays of food upon a table. The room filled with the scents of sandalwood soap and roast meat.

“Very domestic,” Livia noted once the servants departed.

“Strange—that’s certain.” Bram stepped forward and helped remove her gown. He turned her around once the dress slipped to the ground, loosening the laces of her stays. Yet he was already at the door to the closet by the time she wriggled free of her remaining clothing.

He needed her too much. The sight of her nude body would push him past the limits of his discipline.

The scalding bathwater came as a welcome distraction, and he washed himself roughly, scrubbing at his skin as though he could wash off this new self. Too much was at stake. He could ill afford to allow himself to truly feel when he had so much to lose. Yet it could not be undone. For all her hauteur, her commanding ways and pride, the Roman sorceress had stripped him bare and bleeding.

He had died for her. Would do so again. The loss of his own life was nothing. But if the Devil’s threats came to pass, if he were to see her struck down—there would be no recovering. Even in death he would carry that loss with him, and the memory of her pain. And that would be his true agony.

Stepping from the tub, he dried himself and dressed in a shirt, breeches, and boots. When he returned to the bedchamber, he found her with her hair curling damply down her back, clothed in a slightly faded cotton robe à la française. Dalby must have found a neighbor willing to part with some garments for ample compensation.

His breath caught. Mine, he thought, gazing at her as she contemplated the trays of food. This possessiveness came from nowhere and had no precedent. Yet he wanted her to be his, in every way. Just as he wanted to be hers.

A fine time for revelations. At the very moment when I could lose everything.

“My first bath in a thousand years,” she said as he approached. “I nearly wept.”

He bent close to her and inhaled. “Laurel oil and sandalwood. An Aleppo soap I’ve specially made for me.” And now she carried his scent—the most primal marking. Yet beneath was the warm spice of her own fragrance, combining with his to create something wholly new, the joining of them together.

“There was a bay laurel grove at my family’s summer estate in Tusculum.” Her gaze held his. “It was always a relief to escape the heat of the day and lie in the shade, listen to the leaves whisper their secrets.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“That the world was far larger than I could imagine. That there was power beyond my sight.” Memories flickered behind her eyes, people and places Bram would never know, and he found himself greedy for even these pieces of her. “I stopped traveling to Tusculum once I became a votary, but I’d think of those laurel trees whenever the summer heat lay heavy in the temple.”

“We’ve a country estate in Sussex, my family. There’s a forest on the estate—hazel trees, alder and silver birch—but I wasn’t much for laying in the shade.”

“Too busy running wild.” She smiled.

Though spoke lightly, tension glinted like a buried sword beneath their words, and a sure knowledge that evil gathered and strengthened with every passing moment. She kept glancing at the moon, monitoring it.

They helped themselves to the excellent food—he took some gratification in that, to provide her at last with meals worth eating—and dined in silence. Officers did this, dining well in the hours leading up to the first shots of battle, as though determined to wring experience out of life right up to the end.

After their supper had been consumed, the trays and tub removed by the servants. They sat at the edge of the bed, expectant, silent.

He thought, the moment he had her truly in his bedchamber, he would be on her in a moment. Every part of him hungered for her.

Yet he did nothing more than take her hand, her fingers weaving with his.

“Love is a sickness,” she whispered. “It robs you of your strength, hollows you out.”

“Yes.” He laughed once, bleak and wry. “And here I thought I was immune.”

As Livia slept, laying atop the blankets, Bram went down to the music room and selected his tomahawk and favorite sword. He returned to his chamber and sat by the fire, sharpening the blades of both, all the while aware of the moon turning red. He considered his sword in the flickering firelight. All the battles he’d fought in the Colonies were nothing compared to what awaited him and his weapons now, his reasons for fighting so much greater.

Soft footsteps in the hallway alerted him. He leapt to his feet and pulled open the door.

A footman stood there, hand upraised as if about to knock. The servant’s clothing was rumpled. He must have been roused from sleep, and he blinked at Bram—and his unsheathed sword.

“What is it?” Bram demanded.

The servant lowered his hand. “Forgive me, my lord. There are a number of people below. I said they should return on the morrow, but they were most insistent. Lord Whitney, Mr. Bailey, and two ladies. Well, one is a lady. The other is . . .” He coughed, embarrassed. “A Gypsy.”

“Put them in my practice room, and tell them I’ll be down presently.”

Clearly, the servant had not expected this response. He stared at Bram in confusion.

“Go!” And with that, Bram closed the door.

He turned to find Livia awake and already out of bed. In the half light, in her pale gown and with her expression so grave, he nearly mistook her for a spirit once more.

“They’ve come,” he said.

She nodded, grim. “It begins.”

A thought scraped at the back of his mind. Once they set foot outside of his bedchamber, their time alone would be at an end. The tempest would grab hold of them. No stopping until the storm burned itself out, at which point, they would either remain standing or be razed like trees.

They met each other in the middle of the chamber. She stared up at him, full knowledge of what was to come in her night-dark eyes. When he cupped the back of her head, her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, her fingers digging into the flesh beneath, gaining purchase.

His mouth found hers, her hunger matching his own. They were not gentle or tentative. This might be the end, an awareness that gave their kiss its desperation.

It could not last. The world would not stop in its inexorable rotation. They had to break apart, and so they did, as the fire muttered.

Bram strapped on his sword and tucked the tomahawk into his belt. It had seen considerable use. Soon, its blade would be red—or whatever color demons bled. For all his experience on the battlefield and in the blood-soaked forests of the Colonies, he realized he had no idea what to anticipate in this upcoming confrontation. Such a challenge once excited him.

He glanced over toward Livia, stepping into her slippers. No, he did not fear what lay ahead. He wanted it here, now, and done.