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Lord Riven stilled, his massive figure suddenly a frozen sculpture. Only his light brown eyes flared with uncontrollable emotion.

Attentive research always led to success—and Margaret had made careful note of the way he'd spoken of his own condition in their battle last night.

"Come now," she said, "you were listening , weren't you, when I told you how many years I've spent studying the tales and legends of that gem? Your family may not have understood how to reverse the transformation once it was cast, but I promise you, I do —and I'm more than willing to help you solve that little problem in exchange for my own freedom."

Margaret's unfortunate new husband might be stubborn, hard-headed, and prone to growling over perfectly reasonable points of logic, but to her relief, he wasn't nearly as committed to martyrdom as she'd feared. When she arrived at the library the next morning, she found an ancient wooden chest sitting beside the wingchair she had claimed. On top of the chest lay a small piece of paper covered in an untidy scrawl:

Handle with care, if you please.

Oh, for goodness' sake! Did he still understand so little about her?

But Margaret had already spent years proving herself against every male scholar who'd been made furious by her arrival at Morningford College, including the latest smugly entitled Morningford descendant, who'd grown up on its tree-lined campus and fully expected to take every top prize himself by right of birth. So, she only rolled her eyes at the patronizing tone of her husband's instruction before pushing open the chest and diving into exactly the sort of wonders she'd always dreamed of discovering.

Even mere dilettantes, of course, knew that the legendary Rose of Normandy had been the means by which the first werewolves—those infamous ‘Wolves of Normandy'—had been created by William I to power his invasion of England in 1066. Vampires had been the gem's next magical legacy, an act of furious new creation by King John when too many of his own lupine barons collaborated with the French in their attempted invasion of England in 1216. However, no one —except, apparently, the obscure Riven family, hidden deep within the ominous green depths of Dartmoor—had known exactly what happened to the Rose in the centuries afterwards.

For at least some time, the royal family had certainly held it with their other, less magical and dangerous crown jewels, but once the Wars of the Roses had begun and the ‘ruling family' become more of a temporary condition, the Rose of Normandy had become a hotly-sought item of power, passed back and forth in a series of bitter betrayals and bribes. Even now, no historian could say for certain which family—Lancaster or York—had been the one to wield it on that final, monstrous day when the shambling undead rose on Bosworth Field. Both armies had been cut down in the wreckage of that battle, and it had taken years for the successful Richard III's armies to destroy the final remnants of that horror.

The Yorks, of course, all claimed that it had been the vicious upstart Henry Tudor who had done it, the gem smuggled to him beforehand by his treacherous mother. The Lancasters, licking their wounds (sometimes literally, in wolf-form) claimed that, on the contrary, it was Richard who had done it in vile desperation to hold his throne, and all his claims otherwise were lies meant to smear the blame on their dead champion.

Regardless, in the wake of that unholy devastation, both sides had agreed—with a stern Papal bull lending added weight to their final treaty—that the gem was far too dangerous to ever again be used in warfare.

It was in the wake of that same catastrophe that groundbreaking laws had finally been passed and agreed by even the highest of nobles regarding their own Rose-gifted powers, and British society had shifted—with a mere two dozen or so executions along the way—to its current code of carefully civil supernatural and human coexistence.

Over the years, of course, numerous rumors had circulated, telling conflicting stories of the gem's travels since its final use at Bosworth. Some swore it had been buried far beneath the Tower of London to be held under the ravens' watchful guard forevermore; others that it had been stolen by one of Henry Tudor's French supporters as they'd fled, and then gifted by their king to the Pope, to be held secret and safe within the Vatican itself.

If nothing else, the fact that the gem hadn't been wielded in even the most vicious heights of the bloody religious wars that swept the nation two hundred years later had always made it clear, at least to Margaret, that Britain's royal family no longer held the gem. No ruler as rash and arrogant as Richard VI could have possibly restrained himself from that temptation, had it been to hand—and the satisfaction of having her longtime thesis vindicated by these records now within her grasp felt even more satisfying than winning the last department honors over her rival had, two months earlier.

If she were ever to see Gerald Morningford again, Margaret would take great enjoyment in pointing out her victory against him in this intellectual arena, too, after all of the absurd and bombastic theories that he'd shouted over her various public lectures across the years. It would be interesting to see whether he would be able to summon any more articulate a response than the voiceless, sputtering rage and gestured threats he'd made after that most recent department meeting—or his usual bitter rants about the injustice of female students even being allowed into the college founded by his ancestors.

However, the thought of Britain's current playboy ruler ever holding the gem in his own decidedly loose grip, with so many tensions mounting in the continent beyond, was enough to subsume Margaret's brimming satisfaction with cold dread...and add even more determination to her cause.

By the time her husband finally deigned to appear in the library that evening, she had read every crumbling record, made ten pages of closely-scribbled notes to begin with, and was nearly bursting with the need for action.

"You rang for me, madam?" Lord Riven's tone was wry, but he strolled forward with careless animal grace, holding a wineglass full of swirling red liquid and avoiding her carefully sorted piles of paper on the couch to sink into the generous wingchair on the other side of the empty fireplace. For the first time since they'd met, he'd had a proper shave, revealing a strong and surprisingly well-shaped jaw, but she didn't have time for any more than a passing note of that new shift in his appearance.

"It all comes down to the timing ," she told him fiercely. "You said that unlike me in my own situation, you'd asked questions and found evidence to prove that the new law around undead property is real. But I have a far more urgent question. If it took full effect yesterday, it must have been decided months ago—and debated well before that. What was your man of business about, waiting so long to inform you?"

"Do you imagine I didn't ask him that as well?" Lord Riven cocked one imperious eyebrow. "Shaw assumed all along what anyone would—that even if that shameful act did pass, the king would veto it, as any other ruler in our long history would have done. It was a nasty shock to him, as well, and a mistake in judgement. Still, Shaw's a good man in his own way."

Riven sighed, swirling the bloody vintage in his wineglass as his brows lowered and his brooding gaze turned inwards. "Sadly, it's my own fault that he waited so long. Apparently, he'd been searching for months for any means by which I might evade that law, even in the remote chance that it did take effect...but he didn't dare wake me from Sleep without having that clever solution already to hand. I'd strictly forbidden him from waking me early, you see, unless the house was literally burning down around me. Apparently, I was a bit too firm in that injunction. I certainly didn't intend to frighten him out of all his wits."

He winced. "Obviously, I hadn't expected Parliament to act so rashly within my planned two years of rest, nor for King Whatsisname to actually allow it."

"Thomas the Second," Margaret told him as she put together the new points of data. "It's been King Thomas II for the last five years now."

"Who can keep track? I stopped bothering half a century ago." Her husband shook his leonine mane, visibly steeled himself, and then took a fast, deep swig from his glass, his face tightening with unmistakable distaste.

Intellectual curiosity pricked at Margaret's focus. "Is that cow's blood or pig?" According to Mrs. Haworth, the local butcher supplied both on a daily basis.

"The taste is much the same in either case." He gave her a tight smile, his voice taking on a wry note. "Trust me, if you'd care to offer a better option for tonight..." His gaze slid pointedly to her exposed throat, beneath her upswept hair.

She rolled her eyes. "Hardly." They might be rubbing along better now than they had been in the beginning, but they were not sharing the sort of relationship required for that scandalous type of intimacy...no matter how pleasurable it was indeed widely rumored to be. "However, I can offer you some comfort. Shelve any guilt that you've been feeling! You didn't frighten that man at all. In fact, I'd say you frightened him nowhere near enough . He's taken shameless advantage of you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I wasn't the first to have read through these private records in the past year," Margaret told him.

For a moment, her husband was perfectly still. Then he said, his voice a low and ominous rumble, "How could you possibly know that?"

"Whoever was rifling through them was careless with his packing-up afterwards—and he certainly hadn't been trained in preservation. He accidentally included a recent gentleman's magazine among the documents."

His words gritted out through clenched teeth even as his skin visibly paled. "And how do you know I didn't do that myself last night, after you retired to bed?"

She gave him an indulgent look. "Did I not include enough detail about the magazine I found? It's of the type read by would-be gentlemen of fashion all around the country, full of the latest society gossip, reviews of London theatricals, and the most elegant new styles in suits and top hats."

Lord Riven's brown eyes narrowed. "Are you attempting to make a witticism about my taste in clothing?"

"Oh, I'm not thinking only of your attire." Margaret gestured at the two silver candelabras that did their best, along with a low fire, to illuminate the large, shadowy room. "You haven't even bought gaslamps for your home yet—you, of all people, who are in most desperate need of modern means to light the evenings!"

His elongated canines were made visible by the flare of his upper lip. "Very well," he muttered at last, "but only a simpering fool would race after fashion for century after century."

"Oh, certainly." Margaret had never cared much for frills or changing sleeve lengths. "Before our wedding ceremony, though, had you even left this house within the last century? Or spoken to more than a handful of people here?" How long had this sprawling manor house been shrouded in dustcovers?

"Enough!" He let out a long sigh, tipping his head back against the faded velvet upholstery of his chair. With his abundant, tawny hair and nearly unlined skin, Lord Riven would look no more than thirty forever—but something about the haunted expression on his face and the weary slump of his strong shoulders made the weight of his true age suddenly tangible.

"I surrender, madam. You are, of course, correct. I was not the one who searched through those records, and I can imagine only one reason for anyone to do so: they were hunting for undeniable proof of the Rose of Normandy's existence, in my keeping. I'd assumed that your family must have been the ones to ferret out the secret in order to make their demand, but it makes far more sense for Shaw to have done so himself, emboldened by my Sleep and his keys to my house. He couldn't have accessed the Rose itself without my aid, but no one would have questioned his right to be here, looking through my papers in my service."

"Of course," Margaret agreed. "I told you: my aunt and uncle are less interested in supernatural or historical records than anyone else I've met. All that matters to either of them is status and money." Neither of which they'd ever managed to squeeze out of their orphaned niece...until now.

"No," she continued, "I am quite certain that it was Shaw who approached them in the first place, and the Rose was never mentioned in their private negotiations. For them, it would have been more than enough victory to be granted my inheritance at long last for themselves, just as they'd always thought it should be." Her aunt's lamentations over that fact had been a familiar lullaby across the years, especially once it had become clear that Margaret would only ‘waste' those funds by pouring them into her education and independence rather than using them to buy a husband and raise her family in the eyes of the world.

Lord Riven shook his head slowly. "All that I can say in my own defense is that the founder of the firm for which Shaw works was a good friend of mine, long ago. I suppose I've allowed my memories of Edmund's good work and utterly trustworthy character to influence how I view all of his successors...but of course, that was over two centuries past. What a fool I've been." His eyes fell shut, not quite quickly enough to shield that flash of pain. "As you've just pointed out, I am, myself, a hopeless relic, no matter how loudly I've bristled and bluffed, this past week, in a vain attempt to hold my ground through chaos. Perhaps it will be just as well to give up that battle... and this house and all its memories at long last."

"Hmm." Seeing that powerful figure slumped before her probably should have felt like victory, and yet, somehow it didn't. Margaret's brows drew together as she puzzled through her own discomfort. When had she ever not enjoyed winning an argument? It was inexplicable, yet she couldn't ignore the instinctive urge to relieve that disconcerting feeling. "If you recall, you weren't the only one who was fooled," she finally offered. "My family tricked me, too."

His shoulders rose and fell in a heavy shrug. "You were kept sleepless, hungry, and confused."

"And you were woken early from your Sleep with dire warnings and urgent deadlines flung at you. No doubt you experienced some measure of confusion, as well."

"No doubt." Her husband's voice was dry. When his eyes reopened, they were once more alert and wary. "Are you softening me in preparation for a new debate? I told you: I've already given in. You may leave tonight if you so choose. I regret the selfishness of my attempts to keep you with me."

" Good," she said tartly, "because they were not only selfish but also unnecessary. As you just reminded me, I was in a state of exhaustion and confusion when I first arrived. By yesterday morning, I'd had enough sleep and time to think through the facts of the matter. I have no intention of running away now, whether or not I choose to take a brisk walk or two for pleasure in the meantime." More unlikely things had happened, although not often, in her experience.

"Moreover..." She gave him a minatory glare. "Giving up your home and income may be a noble sacrifice that you are prepared to make, but as your wife—having had my own funds stolen—I shall certainly not support you in that endeavor. As it happens, I have very little interest in sleeping in gutters."

"Indeed." One tawny eyebrow rose in open skepticism. "So, you're saying that you've changed your mind about our marriage and now wish to remain wed forevermore?"

"Oh, really ." Margaret snorted as she raked her gaze over his sprawling, muscular figure, which had clearly been designed for dancing or warfare, not quiet scholarship. "I can't imagine either of us could ever wish for that! Fortunately, I have a far better plan for our futures." As she leaned forward, her pages of notes rustled in her right hand, ready and waiting to be transformed into action. "Now that we can finally stop fencing over details, I'm ready to work together and take back everything that's been stolen from both of us."

With her snarling new study partner finally tamed, Margaret dove directly into the meat of the matter.

"What it all comes down to," she said, "is the question of your man-of-business's motivation. Is he a mere tool or a monster himself?"

Lord Riven's fingers tapped against the arm of his wingchair. "I suppose those are the two most likely reasons to have stolen the Rose...either to sell it or to use it for his own purposes."

"Exactly." Only a creature of true depravity could think to unleash more horrors across the world after what had happened the last time the Rose was used in battle. Unfortunately, with sabers currently rattling all across the European continent and jingoism running high, Margaret could imagine far too many potential royal buyers for such a purpose.

Lord Riven sighed. "I wish I could give you an answer to that question. Unfortunately, as I said before, I saw Shaw in our handful of meetings across the years through the lens of his finer forebears at the firm. I know he had a good college education—his predecessor mentioned how high his marks had been—but I know almost nothing more beyond that fact.

"Whenever I summoned him, he smiled, he nodded, he never once argued...and he acted terribly, appallingly afraid when he woke me this week." Grimacing, Lord Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. "I did remind him I haven't fed from the vein in centuries, but...well. Either he did not believe me or he was playing upon my conscience to soften me for his deception."

Margaret worried at the sheaf of papers with her thumb as she thought it through. "Was he that fidgety man who stood behind you at the wedding, with the elaborate moustache?"

"Rather like a walrus, yes. He fiddles with it when he's nervous."

"I noticed." It had been a surprisingly distracting note during the surreality of her midnight wedding. "And I seem to recall..." Margaret's eyes narrowed with the effort of searching through the details in her memory of that night. "As you were escorting me into your carriage, he stepped into another one—an expensive-looking conveyance, I thought. There was no family seal on the side, so I doubt it was one of yours. How much do you pay Shaw, exactly?"

Lord Riven shrugged. "My general practice is to write to my banker every five or ten years and ask what the going rate is for good service. Then I pay a bit above that."

"Certainly not enough to afford that carriage, then." Margaret gave a sharp nod. "In that case, I believe we may settle upon ‘tool' as the most likely description for his function. I expect he was approached by someone who'd come across a rumor of the gem's location"—her jaw clenched with irritation; if anyone should have heard that sort of rumor, it was her!—"and they paid him an exorbitant sum to ferret out the truth and find a way to get hold of it for them."

"God!" Deep lines furrowed her husband's skin as he closed his eyes. "After all these centuries of guardianship—everything I had to give up along the way—to be tricked out of the Rose so easily in the end...!"

Margaret eyed him curiously. "What did you give up, exactly? I've read through all of the original records, but they're rather scattered when it comes to details of the final handover."

"Quite." Lord Riven's lips curled into a bitter smile. "I suppose you couldn't think any worse of me than you already do, so I may as well share the gory details.

"It was in the final rounds of the last war of the northern cross, nearly two and a half centuries ago. I'd left to travel the continent for pleasure just before the war broke out—a Grand Tour, young men call it nowadays, although mine was long delayed by other responsibilities. Of course, I should have hurried back when the news of the first battle reached me in Berlin, but I was still young and feckless at that point. I'd been waiting for years for my great adventure, and I thought all the rumors must be blown out of proportion.

"I couldn't imagine good Englishmen killing each other in that day and age over such rampant, holy nonsense. I was insufferably certain it would be over within a month and not worth changing any of my plans." His lips compressed. "Needless to say, I realized my mistake far too late. By the time I returned, my older brothers were both gone, lost to the ravages of war. Even my father hadn't long left to live, though it was illness and heartbreak that took him in the end. But he was tormented by the knowledge that the Rose, our greatest responsibility, was left with no clear line of descendance. With my brothers gone and I unmarried—and proven to be unforgivably unreliable—he was terrified that the family line would end with no one left to guard the Rose, our ancient compact broken." Lord Riven's throat flexed behind his cravat. "I did the only thing I could to reassure him and grant him peace in his final days."

"You allowed him to Turn you with the Rose." It was the only way the transformation could have been accomplished; already-Turned vampires could pass the curse onwards with a simple blood rite, but anyone else would require the gem's assistance. Margaret tilted her head as she studied her husband. "Yet vampirism removes the chance of children, which could have created those descendants he yearned for."

"If either of my brothers had survived, he would have trusted them to guard the line moving forward. But as for me...well. Neither of us could pretend I hadn't abandoned the family and left my brothers to fight without my help. Thus, it only made sense that I pay the price for my selfishness by taking on the family's greatest purpose forevermore."

"And never leaving this estate ever again?" Margaret murmured. "Was that part of the agreement, as well?"

Lord Riven's gaze dropped to the thick red liquid in his glass, which he swirled for a long moment without speaking. Finally, he said, "In the few days he had left, my father never thought to demand that promise of me."

But he had, apparently, chosen to fulfil it anyway.

Margaret had never cared for self-imposed martyrdom. But she couldn't help a tiny jab of empathy.

She knew only too well what it was to be a disappointment to one's family...and how it felt to lose those relatives who were beloved. After all, she hadn't moved in with her aunt and uncle until her orphaning, halfway through her childhood.

So, she quelled her first, exasperated, response and chose instead to make her best attempt at diplomacy. "I believe two hundred and fifty years must be regarded as enough penance to serve any reasonable purpose," she said. "But I can certainly see now why you've been growling and snapping ever since we met."

"‘Growling and snapping?'" Lord Riven let out a snort as he raised his gaze to meet hers, sudden humor lurking in his expression. "I beg your pardon, madam, but are you now claiming to have been the soul of courtesy and warmth from our first moment of acquaintance? I seem to recall you nearly biting my head off over the state of my poor kitchen when you arrived."

"Tea is important ," Margaret told him, "especially in times of crisis. A man of business who was truly on your side would have seen to exactly that sort of necessary preparation before your wife's arrival."

"Well, in that case, I truly do have good reason to resent Shaw's betrayal." Her husband's voice was wry. "However, the fact remains that I have failed at my family's mission in the end, as my father always expected I would. Had I been able to take the Rose with me, I would have willingly stepped aside and accepted the loss of my estate to honor that commitment. But Shaw was, as I recall, astonishingly vivid in his description of the government's plans to search each departing landowner for possessions they might illicitly secrete upon their person. He also claimed that a close eye was being kept on all of our estates in that final week before the law's enactment, to ensure none of us attempted to stash our possessions elsewhere...and while your family, according to Shaw, had no interest in the Rose except as an historical relic, I couldn't risk it falling into the hands of the government, to be used as an active weapon."

"Of course not." Margaret flapped one hand in dismissal. "But that's all past now, and it's just as well that you made the choice you did."

"It is?"

"Of course! You would have lost the Rose regardless of which decision you had made. On this path, though, you have me by your side to help you get it back. We simply have to work out exactly who it was who bribed your man of business."

She narrowed her eyes as she thought it through. "I don't believe it could have been our own ruler. So far as I can tell, King Thomas hasn't any dreams that can't be satisfied by scantily-dressed vaudeville dancers and copious amounts of the finest champagne." His mother, the late, great Queen Anne VIII, would have rolled in her grave if she'd witnessed such useless depravity. In her own fiery two decades on the throne, she'd overturned so many ancient customs for the better. "On the other hand, if one of his advisors has any grand plans for military glory, I can't imagine King Thomas standing against them. And as for the nations beyond..."

"Aren't you missing a logical step along the way?" her husband inquired.

Frowning, Margaret snapped her gaze up to meet his.

He gestured meaningfully between them with his half-full glass. "Have you not yet stopped to wonder how it is that Shaw introduced me, not to any sensible, impoverished young woman who might have welcomed a speedy marriage for financial reasons, but to you in particular?"

"My aunt and uncle?—"

"May be as greedy as any other pair of seemingly respectable villains, but that's beside the point. He could have found a dozen other options if he'd searched, and every one of them would have been far more convenient, more willing, and closer to home...but he did not. He clearly wished me to marry you. "

Lord Riven leaned forward, a glint of real intellectual challenge sparking in his eyes for the first time and making Margaret's breath catch in her throat. "There cannot be an infinite number of scholars in this country who are currently researching the fabled Rose of Normandy. Judging by everything I've learned of you in the past few days, I'd wager you're at the very top of that field. For you to then be accidentally chosen as my potential wife in a nefarious scheme to steal the Rose of Normandy? No, that stretches plausibility past its breaking point."

"I...dare say you may be right." Blinking, Margaret straightened in her seat and tried to ignore her instinctive response to that unexpected acuity on the part of her new husband. Damn it, he was not meant to be distractingly intelligent as well as attractive on a purely physical level. She had more than enough complications to manage as it was!

"I hadn't considered that point," she confessed, shoving aside that irrelevant, secondary issue. "But I suppose I am, at the moment, the only female scholar with that specialty. For all of our late queen's attempts at social reform, our antiquated laws still won't allow marriages between two gentlemen, at least not yet..."

"But why would Shaw wish me to be paired with any such scholar in the first place? It seems contrary to his better interests to deliver me a partner who would be invested in reclaiming the Rose for their own study." Setting aside the glass, Lord Riven held her gaze, his usual air of weary apathy nowhere to be seen.

In the kindling energy of his focused attention, Margaret found her first glimpse of the man he might have been—keen, curious, quick-thinking and decisive—before centuries of guilt and self-inflicted isolation had taken their toll.

Her chest tightened and her breath shortened for no reason whatsoever.

"No, madam," he said softly, "I believe that when it comes to discovering the ultimate villain of this piece, we've no need to turn our gaze abroad to distant rulers and international strategies. Someone hired Shaw to trick me, steal the Rose and make you my bride—and thus render you a permanent legal resident of this manor. That someone , much like you, clearly knows a good deal about the Rose, to have followed every long-lost rumor—and they wanted you trapped here, deep in the countryside with me and far from the college you consider home.

"So, tell me truly, wife." He cocked one imperious eyebrow. "I know your manner of diplomacy and tact all too well. Exactly how many enemies have you made since you arrived at university? Because clearly, someone there wanted rid of you."

"I've never even socialized in my own college. How...oh. Oh !" Margaret's mouth fell open as the truth hit her. In an instant, the fog of disconcerting interest, attraction, and denial was dispelled. Cleansing rage took its place. "That bastard !"

Lord Riven's lips twitched. "Ah. You have thought of an option, then."

" Thought of one?" Margaret surged to her feet. "I'm going to strangle him with his cravat! Just because he couldn't win against me fairly, he did this ?" All those threatening gestures he'd made at her when she'd won their department honors; those incoherent, vengeful shouts he'd launched in her direction as his friends had dragged him away down the street afterwards...