The past three nights had been a revelation for Rhys. For the first time in decades, being consumed by this mission to save Berwyn Farm while at the same time evading legitimized vampires who hunted rogues for sport did not consume his waking existence. Those things still weighed heavily on his mind, of course, but now he’d also found laughter, companionship, and intellectual stimulation.

After he hunted in the evenings, Rhys would take Vivian and Madame Renarde outside to the beach to walk or ride. Vivian delighted in collecting seashells and Rhys taught her and her companion to skip rocks.

They also practiced fencing with sticks they’d snapped off a tree. Rhys later straightened them with his carving knife. He spent many hours leaning against a rock, watching Madame Renarde teach Vivian new steps and maneuvers. Renarde’s knowledge impressed him. Rhys himself had learned in his mortal days as a privateer. The captain was insistent on every member of the crew knowing their way around a blade. That had saved his life and countless others.

After he’d become a vampire, he’d honed his skill by sparring with other vampires who could fence, his preternatural abilities opening him up to new and innovative techniques. Thinking of transformations, Rhys wondered if Renarde had learned to fence before or after she’d made the decision to live as a woman. Likely before, as most men were against teaching a woman swordplay.

He’d tried to glean information about the eccentric companion’s past, but Renarde remained close-mouthed and always redirected the conversation back to him. For his safety as well as theirs, Rhys couldn’t talk about his past. He did reveal that he’d once been a privateer, leaving out that it had been back in the late 1600’s.

“Ah,” Renarde had said, “That’s why you’ve done such efficient work on securing this cave. You’ve designed it like a ship.”

Vivian had favored him with a heart-stopping smile. “You’re remarkable with carving things. The animals are beautiful. Did you cut all these shelves too?”

“Yes.” The compliment had warmed him all over. “As a—an outlaw, I am forced to spend long hours in this cave. I had to find something to occupy the long hours. You may choose one, if you like... both of you,” he added at the companion’s sharp look.

Madame Renarde shook her head. “A lady is not permitted to accept gifts from a gentleman unless she is to marry him.”

He’d laughed. “I am no gentleman.”

Vivian had bounded to the shelves where he kept the wooden figures. “I hardly think the rules apply in our circumstances.”

She’d selected a hawk he’d carved, its wings spread, and its beak open as if to emit a defiant screech.

“What made you choose that one?” he’d inquired, surprised that she hadn’t preferred the puppy or the hummingbird.

“It looks so free and fearless,” she’d said with a musing smile as she’d stroked the talons. “No one could keep it locked away.”

Madame Renarde offered no explanation for the sculpture she chose aside from, “I like owls.”

Between the walks outside and practice with swordplay, they’d occupied themselves reading through the stories of “Two Hills.” Some supernatural elements had appeared in the serial, with Constable Daleson dreaming of otherworldly beings. Madame Renarde opined that they were only dreams, while Vivian speculated that they were demons, and Rhys was convinced that they were fey creatures from Underhill.

That led to a long discussion of the legends of the fairy folk across the world. Vivian only knew what Shakespeare had referenced, while Rhys shared the Welsh tales he’d heard growing up. Madame Renarde knew both French and Irish stories.

He’d been so enraptured with spending time with Vivian and Madame Renarde that he’d nearly forgotten that they were supposed to be his captives.

Madame Renarde gave him a cold reminder one night when he’d finished playing a game of Speculation with Vivian. Their heads had been bent over the cards, inches away from one another and they’d been exchanging humorous banter. Rhys was just thinking of offering to play another round so he could keep conversing with her when Madame Renarde cleared her throat.

“Rhys, I would like to have a word with you in private.” The companion’s tone indicated that she wouldn’t brook any refusal.

Rhys nodded and led her outside.

“You’re attracted to Miss Stratford,” Madame Renarde said coolly, pacing in front of the cave.

Rhys jolted, suddenly feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “She is a beautiful woman,” he admitted. “Charming and intelligent as well.”

“She is,” Madame Renarde allowed, then muffled a cough. “However, if you care about her, you will not act on your attraction.”

“I believe we’ve had this conversation before.” Rhys feigned tired indifference. “I have no designs on her maidenhood, though perhaps Lord Thornton may be more concerned if I give that impression.” He held up a hand as the companion opened her mouth to protest. “I have decided not to go that route.”

Madame Renarde did not appear to be reassured. “And what if Miss Stratford forgets her position and welcomes your advances?”

A pang of longing struck Rhys at the suggestion. Not in the loins as he’d expected—though there was definitely a stirring there—but in the heart. And what did Madame Renarde mean by Vivian forgetting her position? Was she referring to Vivian being a captive, or simply her status as a blue-blood?

His shoulders slumped. Either way, Rhys’s standing as an outlaw eliminating him of being worthy of Vivian’s affections. And that didn’t even take into account the fact that he was a vampire and she a human.

“If she expresses any sort of girlish interest in me, I will quickly dissuade her,” Rhys promised. Thought there was nothing girlish about Vivian. She’d taken to what was doubtless a terrifying situation with a courage and pragmatism he rarely saw, even in men. She was straightforward in all matters and determination radiated from her every word and deed. How could he not admire her?

Madame Renarde interrupted his reverie. “I find that difficult to believe. Not that I don’t think you’ll try, as you seem honest about your intentions to remain within the bounds of propriety, however, I will speak plainly. You are a handsome young man, dashing and charming, and placing an impressionable young woman in what she could constitute as a grand adventure. Moreover, Vivian is stubborn. I do not see how you can withstand temptation and dissuade her if she sets her cap for you.”

“Do not fret, Madame,” Rhys said, heading back to the cave. “I have my ways.” In truth, all he would have to do was bare his fangs at Vivian and then reluctant affection would no longer reflect in her large brown eyes, but fear.

Yet aside from the myriad disastrous results such a reveal could bring, he did not want Vivian to be afraid of him. The prospect stung more than he’d imagine.

***

VIVIAN’S REPLACED THE cards in the deck while Madame Renarde and Rhys had their private conversation. Irritation niggled in her belly at being left out. What could they be discussing? She was certain it had something to do with her.

When her captor and companion returned, their rush to distract her confirmed her suspicions.

Rhys cleared his throat. “I propose we spend more time on the beach tonight. A fairly warm breeze is blowing, but I smell a storm approaching. We should enjoy the fresh air while we can.”

They once more ventured out. Vivian tried to pull Madame Renarde aside to ask what she’d discussed with Rhys, but her companion instead fetched the carved sticks they’d been using as practice swords and offered to spar.

Rhys occupied himself with digging for cockles and clams. The process looked so interesting that Vivian kept watching him instead of focusing on her fencing match, and thus was trounced thoroughly.

By then, she forgot all about the covert conversation and instead became captivated with the process of identifying the little puckers in the sand that indicated the presence of delicious shellfish and digging them out with a cunning stick that Rhys found for her.

“I wish you’d allow us to come out and do this during the day,” she complained as her stick missed a clam and it buried itself deeper in the sand. “It’s devilishly hard to see in the moonlight.”

“I am sorry, Miss Stratford, but it’s a necessity that cannot be helped.” Disappointment rang in his voice, as if he too longed to cavort in the sun.

Madame Renarde nodded at him in what looked like approval. Was it because he addressed her properly, instead of scandalously using her Christian name as he was wont to do?

It had to be. Surely her companion despised being cooped up all day just as much as Vivian did.

As they took the shellfish back into the cave and shucked them, Vivian wondered if the risk of them being spotted was truly as substantial as Rhys claimed. Somehow, she doubted it. They seemed quite isolated.

But maybe they weren’t.

Just as they were eating a creamy stew made with the clams and cockles, Rhys suddenly froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth, raised his head, and sniffed the air. Before Vivian could ask him about that strange action, his eyes flared with dangerous light, seeming to glow in the firelight.

He rose from his seat and bolted out of the cave.

“Mon Dieu!” Madame Renarde exclaimed. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know.” Vivian set her bowl aside. “But I would like to find out.”

Madame Renarde followed her to the oak door sealing the tunnel. To their amazement, Rhys had forgotten to lock the door behind him. Just as Vivian was about to open it, they froze as they heard voices. Vivian crouched and pressed her ear to the door and Madame Renarde followed suit above her.

“What do you mean, we cannot take shelter here for the day?” an unfamiliar male voice said, sounding peeved. “You’ve always welcomed us before.”

“I’m sorry.” Rhys sounded sincere. “But I’m currently involved in an extremely dangerous situation. If I let you inside, you could be at risk.”

Another voice spoke, this one female. “We’ve been running from Warrington’s people all night and we’re exhausted. We’ll be discreet about whatever new trouble you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in. We always are.”

“I know that, Lucy.” Envy roiled in Vivian’s belly at Rhys’s affectionate tone. “But trust me when I say that my latest venture puts all my past escapades in the shade.”

The other man spoke up. “I think he’s right, Lucy. Can you smell that chowder? And other things? It seems he already has company. The kind we do not involve ourselves with.”

Vivian glanced up at Madame Renarde and whispered, “Should we open the door and call for help?”

“Non.” Madame Renarde shook her head. “These sound like outlaws just like him. There’s no telling what they’d do to us.”

She was likely right. Especially with the nature of the conversation and the fact that these people had taken shelter with Rhys before. Who were they running from in Warrington. Were they highwaymen too? Was there perhaps some sort of highwayman’s guild? Vivian had heard of flash houses in London where pick-pockets formed such an alliance, but she’d always thought that highwaymen acted alone.

With a sigh, she pressed her ear back to the door. She missed Lucy’s response to her companion’s statement that they should move on, but she must have acquiesced, for Rhys was now offering suggestions.

“You’ve already overcome your biggest danger. Warrington is a long way from here and his people don’t stray far from their bounds. There’s another cave about five miles north of here, but you’ll have to go in deep to avoid the tide. And there’s sustenance to be had at a monastery, twelve miles east of there. If you hurry, you can catch the monks when they rise for Matins.”

“Catholics!” the male echoed. “I didn’t know any of them were around here these days.”

“Oh, Andrew,” Lucy said, “Are you afraid we’ll catch their heresy? We’re not good Anglicans anymore. Besides, those papists seem to be as fond of blood as we are.”

Vivian gasped. Fond of blood? No, she most definitely did not want to open this door and meet these people. Just because she liked fencing did not mean she approved of violence.

Rhys chuckled at the macabre remark. “They were too poor for old Henry to bother with when he dissolved most of the other monasteries. And their isolation has kept them safe for centuries.”

“Thank you for the direction,” Andrew said. “North it is. Perhaps our paths will cross again, if you survive this latest escapade.”

Their voices faded and Vivian and Madame Renarde moved back to the fire and returned their attention to their stew. By silent agreement, they pretended to have heard nothing when Rhys returned.

Still, he gave them a knowing look, but didn’t say anything.

After they finished their late supper, Rhys took a cauldron and fetched water for Vivian’s bath. His stew was barely touched. As she frowned at the strangeness of his mouse-like appetite, she also marveled at the ease in which he was able to carry the heavy vessel of water. His wound didn’t appear to plague him at all.

He went back outside as she bathed, and when he returned, his hair was plastered to his head with water and the air vent in the cave howled like a banshee.

“The storm has come,” he said just as thunder rumbled like a dragon’s roar. “It’s quite a fearsome squall, but we should be safe and snug in here.

They listened to the storm rage while Madame Renarde brushed Vivian’s hair and Rhys smoked the remaining clams and cockles they’d gathered. Then, to Vivian’s disbelief, he went back out in the storm.

Vivian wanted to wait up for him, but Madame Renarde declared that they should go to bed. She reluctantly complied and only because her companion looked haggard and exhausted. Vivian worried that Madame Renarde was falling ill, with all the coughing and sneezing she’d been doing for the past few nights. Tonight seemed worse. Hopefully some rest would have her well again.

As Vivian lay in her bunk, trying to sleep, she pondered the mystery that was Rhys. What sorts of outlaws called him friend? How had he been aware of their approach so soon? He’d seemed to smell them, but surely he wouldn’t be able to do such a thing. His friends mentioned smelling the chowder as well. Vivian hadn’t thought the stew was so pungent.

And then there was his small appetite. How could a man remain so strong while eating so little? And was his wound plaguing him at all? She hadn’t seen him so much as flinch since the night he’d dug out the bullet.

When Rhys returned, she had her answer. She watched his silhouette move past the privacy screen and to the bathing tub she’d used earlier. She could see the tub if she craned her neck toward the head of her bunk.

At first, she thought Rhys was simply taking the tub out to dump the water, but to her astonishment, he began to undress. He pried off his boots, then shrugged out of his sodden coat. Her lips parted as he peeled off his sodden shirt. The muscles in his back seemed to ripple in the firelight. Heat flared in her face as his trousers came off next, revealing a backside that looked carved from marble.

Her admiration at his stunning physique halted as he turned just enough so she could see his muscular forearm. She gasped. His wound was gone. There wasn’t even a scar, just smooth male skin.

Rhys turned his head at her gasp and raised a brow in rebuke for her watching him. Her face flamed as she ducked down in her bunk and pulled the covers over her head.

Yet sleep didn’t come for hours. Not with the sound of water splashing as he bathed, naked less than three yards away from her. And not with what she’d seen of his body, and his arm.

How could he be healed? That should be impossible!

Vivian’s lips curved in a rueful smile. How many times had a similar thought crossed her mind? Rhys and the impossible seemed to be old chums.