Night of the Vampires

COLE AND MEGAN returned to the train car just before they pulled into the station. God knows, the soldiers here were probably unnerved enough as it was without watching such a strange arrival as the two of them balancing on the roof.



When the great locomotive chugged to a stop, Sergeant Newcomb stepped down first, looking around, but they were greeted by none other than Brigadier General Thomas Bickford himself and his aides. There had been other troops aboard the train, but, apparently, they had been unaware that another car on the train had been attacked. They were met by Lieutenant Dowling, who, quickly and with military precision, gave them instructions for lodging, nodding with courtesy to Megan and shy little Trudy Malcolm.



Thomas Bickford was a man of about fifty, solid, courteous and as weary as the rest of the world.



"You'll be in a house in the lower town, just up the street from the engine house," he told them. "We'll see that your horses are stabled for the evening, and you'll join me for dinner two doors down. The town has been so deserted that there aren't really many facilities to offer. You'll have one of my aides-de-camp, Corporal Dickens, to assist with your needs. Dickens is from this area, so he knows the terrain, as well. You'll find that most of my officers are housed along the road, as well. If you take Church Street, you get to the church, should you desire. Had another church up there, but it got blown to bits." He looked over at Dowling briefly. "But you can see more of the town tomorrow and get the lay of the land then. Darkness comes real quick and harsh here, so you might want to be seeing to your lodgings, first thing."



"What I'd like to see first thing," Cole told him, "is the corpses."



"Suit yourself then, Granger. I'll see to it that Dickens settles the ladies in."



"I will stay with Mr. Granger, if I may," Megan told him.



The general shook his head. "I hear that you know a great deal about men possessed by this horrible disease, Miss Fox. But I'm not sure you want to see these bodies."



"Sir, I must, if I'm to be of assistance."



He looked at her solemnly. She doubted that the man knew anything about her or her past. He certainly didn't know what she was. But, there was a telegraph office here, and here was a man in direct contact with the supreme commander of the Union forces, so there really wasn't any need for her to argue her presence.



"As you wish. I am far too eager to put a stop to this to demand delicacy in any situation these days, my dear. You may go with Mr. Granger and we'll rendezvous in two hours' time in my dining room. Dickens will show you the way."



Trudy managed to speak up at last. "General Bickford, I'm here as secretary and assistant to Miss Lisette Annalise."



"Yes, of course. Miss Annalise is lodging in the lower level of the house. Private Anderson will take you then, and the men who will be sharing the Mickleberry house with Mr. Granger's party. And now, Mr. Granger, since you are eager... Dickens-where are you, son?"



Dickens quickly came forward. He was a young fellow, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, with freckles and bright red hair. He quickly nodded, smiled at the ladies and tipped his cap and then said to Cole, "This way, sir."



As she followed Cole and Dickens, Megan looked around the town and felt a chill. On the main street they walked uphill. She looked at the houses, and it seemed that none of them had borne the true wicked brunt of the war. The houses lining the street remained beautiful as they went up the hill.



But it wasn't the same town at all. There was no one there. Men and women did not stroll the streets. Nobody leisurely enjoyed the misty cool air of evening.



They passed by the engine house where John Brown had reportedly holed up during his infamous raid on Harpers Ferry. It was now in use by the military, and all that remained of the fiery abolitionist was the ghost of the past. Right or wrong? Shades of gray. The man had believed desperately in freedom for all men, but he'd murdered innocents to prove his point. He had died himself, promising that the land would be washed in blood.



And so it was. In a different way, now.



"This is our temporary morgue," Dickens said. He opened a door on the street level, but when they had entered the building, he opened another door at the end of a hallway where there were stairs leading down to the coolness of a basement. "Summer's coming. The heat, even here nearly in the mountains, can play havoc with the dead."



"Of course," Cole said.



"There's gas lamps on the walls. I'll just get them on for you," Dickens told them.



They went down the darkened stairway, Dickens in the lead. When he stopped, Cole stopped, and Megan nearly plowed into his back.



Suddenly, Dickens let out a horrendous cry. He had turned the wick on one of the lights, and in the pale red glow that came to surround them, Megan saw that a man stood in front of Dickens. His head was at an angle, his throat badly slashed, and he was reaching for Dickens with a savage smile upon his mottled face. The man had risen, and recently.



Cole quickly pushed Dickens out of the way, ready with a stake for the heart of the "diseased" man. The body fell, but Megan knew as well as Cole that if one had resurrected, the others would soon follow suit.



She reached into her skirt pockets, hoping that, after their adventure on the train, she still had a decent supply of holy water. She had four vials; seven men had been killed the night before; one was down.



"Back out of the way!" she ordered Dickens, stepping around him. Cole was already dispatching the second beast to rise, one that wore a sergeant's stripes. She hurried to one of the wooden benches where the corpses had been laid out, and hurriedly emptied the contents of one vial over a corpse's heart. The water became like acid, eating through uniform wool and the man's flesh. His mouth started to form into a snarl and his eyes opened in shock. But then the man's eyes softened. He looked straight at Megan for a minute. And then he closed his eyes, and he was dead and gone, a hole where his heart had been and the ragged remnants of his insides still visible.



"Oh, holy Jesus! Mary, mother of God!" Dickens slumped against the rough brick of the basement wall.



Megan glanced at him, and he cried out, pointing. She swung around swiftly enough to duck the attack of a private first class. Avoiding his lumbering embrace, she slashed down hard on his neck with her balled fist as he fell, then straddled him swiftly to roll him over and plunge a stake Cole tossed her deep into his heart. Another came at her, while Cole engaged another himself. They both staked their opponents cleanly.



Poor Dickens was mouthing words incoherently.



"One more!" Cole cried to her-he had already dispatched four of the undead dead, and was pointing to the last bench.



The corpse upon it was now rising. She kicked out hard, catching the head with her booted heel, and causing the thing to roll off the bench. Cole tossed her another stake from the arsenal in his coat, and she slammed the finely honed wood hard into his chest.



The dead were now-dead. Dickens had slumped all the way to the floor and was just staring at the two of them.



"Mr. Dickens," Cole said gently, hunkering down in front of him. "This is a really bad disease, and the problem is that it's contagious. Once you're ripped apart, you can end up coming back. This is the way the dead must be dispatched. Now, to finish this off, they all need to be decapitated. Can you handle this?"



Dickens stared at him, blinking.



"We've got to get this situation under control, now," Cole said gently. "Or...well, you've seen what can happen."



Dickens nodded. Cole stretched out a hand. Dickens took it and pulled himself up. He shivered and seemed to give himself a huge mental shake. He saluted, though Cole wasn't military. "Yes, sir!"



"I'm going to need a wagon and some shrouds. Can you get them for me? We'll get these men buried before it gets any later. This is one occasion when they just can't be sent home for proper burial."



"Yes, sir!" Dickens started for the stairs. He came back. "I have a bowie knife on me, sir. The orders came through over the wire that we were all to be armed with bowie knives. I can do my part here, sir."



Cole hesitated, wanting to keep the man's mind sound.



Megan stepped forward, touching his arm and speaking quietly. "He should learn while he's with us."



Cole nodded.



Dickens, now that he was gaining control over his shock, was going to prove to be a stronger individual than Megan had previously thought. She went quietly to work on her own kills while Cole showed Dickens how to best sever through the neck. It took some strength.



Finally, Dickens left to acquire the wagon and shrouds. Then he returned, Newcomb was with him, and between the four of them, they brought the corpses up, the heads in a separate bag, and then began the long haul to the Harpers Ferry cemetery. It was at the top of the hill, and trees surrounded it, shrouded in fog. Megan kept a staunch lookout while the men dug graves and buried the remains of the deceased.



Dickens was quiet a moment while Cole tamped down the earth that covered the heads.



"That one fellow," he said. "The one who came after me. I knew him well in life. We served together since the beginning of the war. That was Petey Marlburg. A good friend. A staunch Catholic."



"We can have words said over him tomorrow," Megan said, her tone consoling.



"That's right, son. But when you come back with the-uh, disease, well, then you need to be put down and put to rest properly, then have the words said over you, do you understand?" Sergeant Newcomb asked.



Dickens nodded. "Yes, sir. I-uh-I sure do understand. After tonight. Was it-was it other diseased men who did this?"



"Yes, precisely," Cole said. "And that's why we have to find the men who are out there-those with the disease."



Dickens nodded. They all walked back to the wagon and crawled aboard. Dickens took the reins for the slow and careful journey back down the hill in the dark. Megan was certain that they would be attacked any minute. She sat with her hands in her pockets, ready for whatever came.



But though the night sky was dark, and though they were surrounded by mist, no one, and no creature, assaulted them. It had grown late-they should have been at the general's quarters an hour before to share supper, but there had been nothing they could do. If they were to be of any help here, they had to see that the dead were dead, and not buried before then.



It turned out that they had very decent quarters, with Cole and Megan in separate bedrooms on the second floor, their four-man military escort in bedrooms on the ground level. There was a woman, a middle-aged, still-round spinster named Mary-Anne Weatherly who tended to their rooms and to their needs. They washed up quickly. While bringing in warm water so that Megan could clean herself, she informed her that no matter what people said, she just wasn't afraid of Rebs, Yankees, guns, bombs or diseases. For the good Lord had taken her first love in the war with Mexico, and her second love last year at Gettysburg. She was ready to join all her loved ones when He chose, and that was that.



She winked at Megan, though, and told her, "But I don't mind paying heed to superstition, I'll have you know. I sleep next to my own little altar with a beautiful, carved wood crucifix made by my nephew and blessed by a priest. And I go up to church every day of my life and make crosses all over my body with holy water. When the good Lord wants me, he gets me. But no other!"



With that, she left Megan smiling and a little lighter. Megan finished scrubbing up the best she could. Right as she finished, Cole knocked at her door and asked in his deep voice if she was ready.



She joined him quickly.



The general had taken up residency in an abandoned home, as well. There were still pictures of somebody's family on the mantel, and on a few of the side tables. They'd probably been taken just before the start of the war, when photography had grown so popular. Older silhouette drawings sat side by side with the images.



The family had consisted of a mother and father, two sons and a daughter. The mother had a beautiful smile. The girl seemed to adore the brothers she sat between. The grandparents had...pleasing profiles.



Megan wondered if these people were all alive. She hoped so, and that one day, they would come back and laughter might fill the house again.



Their meal had been kept warm, and it had dried out. The general had already dined with his other guests-Lisette Annalise and Trudy Malcolm.



"Well, how very lovely and charming, Miss Fox-you've accompanied Cole," Lisette said, greeting Megan.



She practically gushed the words. Her eyes were brilliant, and anyone might have thought that she was honestly open, warm and giving.



"Yes, I think I can be of service," Megan said.



"Dickens reported on your service, Miss Fox," General Bickford said gravely. "How did you come to know how to deal with this disease so well?"



"I saw it on the battlefield."



"And you were on the battlefield, supporting Southern troops?" Bickford asked.



"Yes, sir. I am from Virginia."



"Many a man from Virginia chose to stay with the Union," Bickford pointed out.



One of the general's aides handed Megan a sherry. She accepted it, weighing her answer. "And many a man did not. But I'm not here to wage a war against anything other than disease, sir. And I pray that you will take advantage of that."



"I am grateful that you have chosen to lend us your expertise," he said, jovial and expansive from drinking.



"And your strength!" Lisette said. "Trudy has told me you were amazing-better than any male soldier-when your train was beset this afternoon."



"I have had some dealings with the situation," Megan said evenly. "Although, in fairness to the others, Trudy likely didn't see everything."



"Yes, well, your brother is quite the expert. Cody Fox," Lisette said.



"Yes, he is. He has worked with Brendan Vincent, and now Cole, for some time dealing with this plague. He is a medical man, you know," she said sweetly.



"Now, Lisette, you must give my guests the chance to enjoy their dinner," General Bickford said. He meant that it should be so. Though he had dined already with Lisette and Trudy, they all sat at the dinner table, covered in the original owner's lace cloth.



General Bickford talked about Harpers Ferry, keeping the war from his conversation. "It's sad that Harpers Ferry should have come to be such a strategic location. It is a magical spot on earth, I believe. Two rivers come together here, and the jagged edges of cliffs and mounts look down on the verdant richness of the valley! Commerce was wonderful, with the canal and then the railroad. The great father of our country, George Washington, saw the wonder here. Before him, the native peoples knew the beauty and the magic. It's said that Shenandoah and Potomac were lovers from different tribes-they were forbidden to love and marry, and thus they saw each other across a great chasm, and their tears formed the rivers when they could not reach one another. They tried, of course, and died there, in the flood of their tears, for their love was true and strong. Alas, now, the night comes quickly, fog and mist swirl around in a deep darkness, and a different sort of tears there are, with my men taken by something that seems not quite of this earth."



"Oh, it's of this earth, sir. But it's a new type of disease, and it spreads quickly. But there's no mystery as to how," Cole began. "The only way to stop it is to find all of the diseased, injured, dead and even some appearing to be all right, and see to it that the infection doesn't overtake and revive them. There are methods of dispatching the dead, and your fellow, Dickens, proved himself to be a fine asset this evening. In fact, he shows just how easily one can learn these methods. I think that the men must become aware, and they must not laugh at tactics, or think that they're silly-or assume that a dead man can no longer move and harm them. They must take severe precautions at night. I believe that some instructions have been wired to you, and that Lisette has been able to give you other suggestions."



When they had finished their meal, the remains were quickly whisked away by the general's staff. Coffee and brandy were served to all of them in the parlor, and the general pulled out a cigar. Cole thanked him, though he refused one of his own.



They were dealing with a harsh situation, but the weathered general still asked the ladies permission to light up with them in his company. Megan appreciated the courtesy, and thought it strange but nice-considering that she had spent part of the early evening severing men's heads from their bodies.



Bickford puffed on his cigar and watched the smoke. "I have been advised, even before now, that survival, faith and the hereafter may often rely upon a man's belief. Take the Catholic church up on the height. Father Costello stayed behind when many fled. He had not cared if Union or Confederate troops were holding the city. When there's fighting, he raises the Union Jack of Britain, and all of us-Southerners, Northerners, strangers!-look for different targets. That church remains, despite its location, and despite the cannon balls that have riddled other houses of worship.



"He had told me that bricks and stones don't hold God, that a man finds God without any physical doing. And yet, he tells me that I must remain blessed by his holy water, and he watches over many who were his flock, those hardy individuals who have not fled this place of constant struggle! He had told me to see that my men pray at night, that they wear their crosses and crucifixes, and even that they should sprinkle their door frames and window frames with holy water." The general looked around at them. "What do you say to that-can faith fight disease?"



"I've seen faith work miracles," Cole said drily.



"Many of the men whisper that this is the work of vampires," Lisette said, looking straight at Megan.



"Is vampirism the name of this disease?" Megan asked. "I suppose that it's lore in many places," she said sweetly. "But, the point is, as Shakespeare pointed out, names mean little. But, I will say this-I've seen injured who hadn't a chance survive because of the love they bore for their family. I've seen men pray before a battle that should have been lost, and yet, they prevailed. At a time like this, I think that the good Father's suggestions should definitely be taken to heart. If nothing else, it gives people some feeling of control, some ability to calm themselves while they endure whatever this is. Besides, we do know that the disease will return if the heart is not staked, or if the head of the stricken isn't removed. Call it what you will, Miss Annalise-what must be done to stop it must be done."



"Of course," Lisette said. "But we all know, too, that sometimes the disease is stealthy and works its terrors slowly. Why, that we might be dining with one of the diseased at almost any time."



"The disease is only truly a disease when the malignance in it comes to a head," Cole said, stepping in. "And, there are times when those who are barely inflicted can be saved."



"Oh, yes!" Trudy said, speaking up ardently. She looked flushed when she realized she had actually spoken.



Lisette offered her a serious frown, but General Bickford said kindly, "Oh, do you know something about this, Miss Malcolm?"



"Well, I know that a boy collapsed early this afternoon, and that Mr. Granger and Miss Fox were magnificent. They transfused blood from Miss Fox to the boy, and the boy, who appeared to be at death's door, was then cured. It was-awe inspiring!" she declared.



"Do we know that the boy will survive the night? That he won't be further afflicted, or infect others?" Lisette asked pointedly. She looked at Cole. "My goodness-I hadn't known that you'd received a medical degree, Cole."



"No medical degree, Lisette. I've just worked in the field with Cody many times to help the injured-and the diseased. Like is done in the army every day," Cole said easily.



"Well, in this matter, it seems, I will follow your lead, Mr. Granger," General Bickford said. "My men have found that while bullets might slow the diseased animals, it will not kill them. They have been ordered to use knives, and stakes, as you would have them." He hesitated. "But so far, we've had mostly sneak attacks at night, so little chance to employ these methods. Attacks so stealthy that we don't even know until the morning that our guards have been killed. What I fear is that the hills are not harboring rebels, but monsters who might be gathering for an attack."



"We've come prepared for such a possibility," Cole said. "Tomorrow, if I may, I would like to work with some of your troops."



"Absolutely. And is there a specific art in which you will train them?" Bickford asked.



"Archery," Cole said, and Megan smiled inside as the solemn general's eyebrows raised just a little in response.



THE QUICK WALK HOME from General Bickford's house was uneventful. Cole and Megan walked alone, Lisette and Trudy being quartered with the general and his aides.



It struck Cole as they walked the few feet from house to house that the town was unusually silent for an army camp, and that, in the shroud of mist it wore, this was a sad and melancholy place, one of such great beauty that it mourned with pain for all that the war had cost it.



When they reached the house where they were staying, he noted that although no one was outside the house, their escorts were on duty inside.



The door opened as they approached the house, and Sergeant Newcomb was there to greet them. "I'll be locking up when you two are in," he said cheerfully. Megan was glad to see that he seemed to know his business; once they were inside, he didn't just lock the door. He set a large, plain, heavy wooden cross against it. "Windows are all set, sir. The housekeeper, that nice Mrs. Weatherly, she told me that she knew how to keep a Christian household safe, and we decided that we'd just do everything she said. Though, I must admit, she'd been at it herself already. She said that we were lucky-she already had holy water all around the place, and it wasn't likely that anything would be getting through on her watch."



Cole smiled. "I believe her, Sergeant. I believe her. I guess we'll go on up and get some sleep then."



"Good night, sir. One of us will be awake through the night, and not one of the boys will strive to be a brave soul and venture out on his own. If anything happens, you'll hear us a-caterwauling as if the devil himself stepped foot inside."



"Thank you, Sergeant. Good night," Megan told him.



She preceded Cole up the stairs. This, like General Bickford's quarters, had been someone's home, one set up long ago to accept visitors. It had probably been maintained primarily as a lodging house. A large hallway had become a makeshift parlor, and there was table and chairs arranged for dining. At one time, meals had more likely been brought up to tenants individually instead.



"Good night," Megan told Cole, pausing in the parlor area.



"Good night. And-"



"Scream, loudly, if anything," she finished for him.



Cole nodded and walked on into his room, closing the door behind him.



Megan walked into her own room, wondering if she would dream that Lisette Annalise was a monster again. She'd already seen tonight that the woman was a monster indeed, though perhaps only a horned toad.



In the dressing room she discovered that Mrs. Weatherly had left her fresh water, and, with the liberty of time, she scrubbed well and managed to wash away most of the dirt and dust and death of the day. It felt nice. She took her time brushing out her hair, and wished that she didn't have to turn out the gas lamps; it was darker here than she had ever imagined darkness could be. Of course, she would be best off in the dark, leaving what slim light came from the moon to illuminate any intruder, should one come. But she didn't want to be in the darkness, and that might be why she tarried so long.



Eventually, she had brushed her hair, brushed her teeth, scrubbed and brushed her teeth and hair again, and had no further reason to stay up. She'd given blood twice in two days; she needed to rest. But, still, she didn't want to sleep in the dark.



She left the dressing room for the bedroom and lit the lamp there before walking to the window and looking out. She could see the Catholic church up on the hill, a silhouette in the moonlight, and she could see the darkness, a shadowy drape as it fell over foliage and houses alike. She was at the low end of the valley. The house was barely a block up the hill, but when she listened closely, she could hear the rush of the river so near, and then the soft call of night birds. The sounds were enchanting, and, tonight, the darkness seemed to be filled with peace.



So she was startled when a tap came at her door. And again when the door opened slowly. She was framed by the window, and she knew that she could be seen clearly, just as Cole was caught in the soft glow that emanated from the lamp near the doorway.



"Is something wrong?" she asked him anxiously.



He was shirtless, in his long johns, and the gaslight cast a pattern of gold over the muscular structure of his shoulders and chest.



"No, nothing has happened," he told her. "I couldn't sleep. I heard you in here, moving. I wanted to make sure that you were all right."



"I'm all right."



"I see that," he replied. He didn't leave the doorway. She didn't leave the window.



They seemed frozen in time, and, oddly, Megan wanted the moment to remain. He was beautiful there-he was what she might have wanted her whole life, someone who knew her for exactly who-and what-she was. He was ever ready to protect her, but he knew her strengths as well, and wasn't loath to the fact that she could help him. Somehow his initial resistance to her compelled this feeling further: she had impressed him with who she was.



She wanted to touch him, and yet she was afraid to move, because she didn't want to break the spell that kept him as close as he was, even though it was too far away.



At last, he moved. "Well, good night," he said.



And she thought that he would turn, close the door and return to his own room. She wanted to cry out that she didn't want him to go, but the words froze in her throat.



But instead, he paused halfway out, and she thought that he swore just beneath his breath. And then he turned, and he walked across the room to her, pulling her into his arms. For a moment she saw the depths of blue intensity in his eyes, and then he lifted her chin, and he kissed her, and it seemed as if the entire world melted away.



She should protest, of course. She should show some semblance of dignity or pride. She should remember that she had come from society in which decent young women did not do such things....



But they were so wrong. That she knew. All young women dreamed of being held by a man such as Cole, by someone who could be so strong and tender at once, by someone with a voice as rich and husky and sensual as finely polished mahogany.



And his mouth, his touch, his kiss...his lips formed over hers, his tongue prodding an entrance, playing so evocatively in her mouth....



And then he broke away from her, his thumb and forefinger still upon her chin and cheek, and his eyes searched hers, for what she wasn't sure. But again she feared that he would go away-she had to say something or he would do so.



But words wouldn't come, so she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his, and luxuriated in the way that his mouth parted, how his lips pressed tightly and hungrily over hers once again. His arms came around her then, pulling her close to him, so wonderfully close. The fabric of her cotton gown was thin, and she could feel the heat of his body through the gauzelike fabric. She felt his heart and its pulse running through his veins, and she wondered at the vitality and the passion in him, and she prayed that the rest of the world could be this, just being held by him, feeling his body tight against her own.



And then...



She wanted more. There was wonderful energy running through him. There were things happening with his size and shape, the tension in his muscles, and the feel of his sex tight against her, constrained within the long johns and yet so...insinuative.



His hand ran down the length of her back, and they were closer still. And then his lips parted from hers once again and he was looking at her, and husky, whispered words escaped him. "You're my best friend's sister," he said, with a hint of anger in his voice. But the anger was for himself, not for her.



She found her voice at last: she knew that she had to do so.



"Life is fleeting and short, and even bitter, and I chose this. We don't need his permission for anything. I adore my brother, but he's a man who didn't know he even had a sister until recently. I can tell about him-if he knew that we were here, together, if I've come to know him at all, he'd be glad that we were together. He'd never deny you or me something that felt so right."



She had managed, somehow, in her confusion and longing, to say the right thing. Because she knew, as his eyes still touched hers, that he wasn't leaving.



His mouth found hers again, and his kiss was deliciously fevered and wet-searing hot-and it awoke every sense in her body as if she had never felt awakened before. His lips ran down the side of her throat, pressing against the pulse there, and down to her shoulder, and he slipped his fingers beneath the shoulders of the gown, and it slipped down her body, baring her breasts in the moonlight. His hands were callused, the hands of a man who handled guns, bows and arrows, saddles and reins, but the light and caressing way they circled and cradled her breasts made the touch more than she thought she could bear. She trembled beneath his touch, returning the sensation, feathering her fingertips over his shoulders and down the length of his back. He cradled her closer but she drew away from him, stepping from the gown, and she didn't feel in the least ashamed that she should be with him so. She just wanted more.



She caught his hand and drew him toward the bed. He ripped the covers from it to bring her down upon the clean, fresh sheets, his mouth finding hers again. And then he rose over her, catching her eyes again, and he didn't smile. He seemed to be almost bleak for a moment, but then he closed his eyes and opened them, and said softly, "I don't know how I stayed away from you so long."



She smiled and reached out to touch his hair, thick and rich and so dark. His head bent, and she threaded her fingers through the richness of it as his kiss found her throat again, the pulse there, and then lowered to encompass her breasts, tender and light and passionate, then her midsection. His tongue teased and laved her navel and traveled below, and she stopped breathing, just feeling and marveling, ever so slightly in shock, at the things the intimate touch of his tongue seemed to do to her, inside and out. She began to feel a rising of something almost like insanity, a need for more of his touch that was more desperate than any hunger she had ever known. It rose within like a spiraling fire. She'd heard whispers about this kind of desire, this kind of magnificence, but she'd never imagined that anything so spectacular and physical could really be... A magic that she had never thought that she might attain...



She arched against him, writhed with an ache that kept rising explosively, and then felt as if the world itself did ignite. A burst of a thousand stars...it was a feeling almost like ebony silk, shattered with a million crystals of light. It was like basking on clouds. And she felt the thunder of her heart and realized that the gasping she heard was her own breath, and then his, for he moved over her, scrambling with one hand to rid himself of the ridiculously intrusive long johns, and then it started all over again, only more magical, for he was within her, their bodies were like one, moving, slowly...faster...



She clung to him. She was sure she whispered incoherent words.



She didn't care.



She knew that she was mindless, soaked with perspiration, striving again, hungry, wanting and yet aware now that a peak could be reached, more magnificent than any mountain crest, sweeter than any bubbling stream or flower-strewn lea. She was achingly aware of his every twitch of muscle, his pure physical being, and yet...



The world exploded again. Stars. Everywhere. Something so good and sweet it was almost agony. Incredible. Miraculous. A feeling of intimacy and fantasy that was so elusive...and yet, even as she drifted and eased to a sensible platform of knowledge and being, he was there with her, holding her at his side, and his breathing was erratic and his heartbeat was still thunder, and to know that it had been shared made it all the more wondrous. His hand, long fingered and strong, pulled her close to him. She felt the whisper of his breath against her neck, and the chill as their body heat cooled and the touch of the night air swirled around them.



Of course, a certain sense of logic returned to her then. Cole was a man who had known what he was doing.



It might not have been the magic of discovery for him.



He'd known other lovers....



She closed her eyes, and she lay against him, her heart pounding as she charged herself not to ruin the beauty with flippancy and insecurity. And when he drew a finger down her back, she knew that she would not, for he whispered, "You're more beautiful than even I might have imagined."



She turned into his arms. She looked searchingly into his eyes. "You were never afraid," she said softly.



He gave her a curious smile, frowning slightly. "Afraid?"



"That I might have gone mad, taken a chunk out of your jugular?"



His smiled deepened. "It would have been worth it."



She started to turn away, perplexed, disturbed.



He wouldn't allow it. He pulled her back to him, rising above her on an elbow. "I was never afraid," he said softly. "I trust you completely."



Tears threatened to sting her eyes. She couldn't allow such a show of emotion.



"Thank you," she said, and her voice sounded ridiculously prim.



He looked at her searchingly. "Is that why...you never took a lover before?"



She laughed softly, the sound hollow. "Ah, well, not that I was much of a believer in the behavior of a woman in fine society..." she began. But she wanted to cry inside, for he'd discovered the truth.



She thought that now he might draw back.



But he didn't.



He kissed her tenderly on the lips, and then kissed her forehead.



"My poor, dear girl," he said softly. "My poor, dear Megan."



"Not poor at all," she said. "Just a choice I made."



He eased back down beside her, pulling her close again. "I will always trust you," he said, "and admire you and care for you, for all that you are."



They were beautiful words, of course. She found herself imagining that he had said, I will always love you.



But, of course, he had not. Trust was earned. Love...



How did love come to one? Was it something like this feeling of wanting to be with someone, and then knowing that you wanted to be with them always...?



Wake with them in the morning? Every morning?



She swallowed, knowing it would be far too easy to feel that way about Cole. And she wasn't stupid or naive. Wanting someone sexually did not mean that you wanted to wake up with them every morning.



And still...



She had spoken the truth. They had both seen just how bitterly short and brutal life could be. She was happy beside him, glad to be where she was, and she would cherish the moment.



Moments...



His fingers were running down her spine to the small of her back.



And it was amazing that the sweet and agonizing feeling could begin to sweep through her again so easily....



She turned into his arms. She didn't want to question or wonder.



She just wanted to cherish the night.