Against his will, against his judgment, his own body responded to her. His cock stirred, eager as always for the pleasures of women. The damned thing had to suffer disappointment, however. This woman, for all her sensuality, had no substance. He might as well try to fuck the air.

Throwing back the covers, Bram rose from bed. He felt her gaze on him as he walked, naked, to the low cabinet where the chamber pot was kept. For a moment, he debated whether or not to go behind the screen in the corner of the room. Ridiculous. He wasn’t going to affect modesty for this termagant. So, after his partial erection subsided, he relieved himself in full view of her. If she didn’t like it, she could just . . . fade away.

Once finished, he strode to the washstand and cleaned himself. He splashed water on his face and torso, all the while watching her in the mirror that perched on the washstand.

Her gaze never left him, traversing the length of his body, lingering on his buttocks. Hunger gleamed in her eyes.

An image materialized in his mind: her stretched out beneath him, her ankles locked around his thighs and her fingernails digging into his arse as he thrust into her. She would be a fierce bed partner, the both of them struggling for dominance and enjoying the fight.

Oh, his cock liked that. But he didn’t. He flung more cold water on his face and even onto his groin.

What he felt was only thwarted desire. He hadn’t enjoyed Lady Girard last night, thanks to Livia. And it was a very short journey from anger to lust.

A scratch sounded at the door.

“Make yourself invisible,” he growled at Livia. “Don’t want you frightening my servants.”

She scowled at him, but at least she did as he commanded, her form growing less and less substantial until only a vague outline of her shape remained. Unless one deliberately looked for her, she’d remain unseen.

Bram waited until his erection subsided, thinking of the most dull aspects of estate management such as irrigation and drainage, before calling out, “Enter.”

The door opened and Cleeve, the valet, entered and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord. Might I open the draperies?”

Bram grunted in assent. He squinted against the glare as Cleeve pulled back the curtains, revealing a patchy gray sky. The valet remained disinterested as he went about straightening the room, setting the chair back up on its feet, putting the empty decanter on a table, picking up the discarded banyan.

He held the banyan out. “A shave, my lord?”

Bram took the robe and donned it, then sat. The rich fragrance of sandalwood soap rose up as Cleeve used a boar bristle brush to stir up the foam for shaving. As he did this, a maid appeared in the door, a tray in her hands.

“Coffee and rolls, my lord?”

At his nod, she came in and set the tray down on the bedside table. He paid his servants well to remember his habits, and they did. The maid poured him a cup of coffee—no sugar, no milk, just as he preferred—and set it on the washstand so he might have it close by.

“You chuckle, my lord,” said Cleeve, dabbing the foam on his cheeks and chin. “Something amusing at the theater?”

“This is all so damned ordinary.”

“My lord?”

“All this.” Bram waved at the shaving supplies laid out on the washstand, and the maid tidying his bed. “Everything’s changed, and nothing’s changed.”

Cleeve did his best to hide his confusion. Perhaps he thought his master still weathered the death of a close friend. Perhaps he believed his master showed the very first signs of madness. Whatever the valet thought, he simply answered, “Yes, my lord. Will you hold still, my lord?”

Bram remained motionless as Cleeve glided the razor down his cheeks, but his gaze flicked to the ghost’s hazy outline hovering in the corner. What did she think of this, the daily rituals of an English nobleman? Were they different from how men of her time met the day?

Likely she thought him a selfish rogue, attending to his toilette instead of rampaging up and down the streets of London, seeking the Devil and preparing for battle.

“Please do not frown, my lord. It makes it more difficult for me to shave you.”

He attempted to smooth out his scowl. But anger still seethed within him. He’d seen his share of battle and wanted nothing more to do with it.

Life would continue as it always had for him. Everything must remain the same. And if Livia or John objected to that, they could go hang.

“Lay out my fencing clothes,” he said once Cleeve wiped the last of the shaving foam from him. The academy had a chamber for changing one’s garments, but he did not want to go through the tedium of dressing, undressing, and dressing again.

The valet bowed and, after putting away the shaving supplies, moved to the clothes press. He pulled out a lightweight shirt and soft doeskin breeches, and a short padded jacket. Bram and Whit often practiced their swordsmanship first thing in the day. Bram had abandoned these regular training sessions after Whit deserted the Hellraisers—training at home rather than try to cling to what had been lost. Yet Bram would make everything return to normal.

Dressing for his practice, he felt Livia’s continued stare. His jaw tightened. Yes, he’d go on as he always had, and there wasn’t a damned thing the ghost could do about it.


The shouts and grunts of men echoed in the arched ceiling. Pale sunlight washed down through high windows, illuminating men moving back and forth across the scarred wooden floor. They lunged and danced, thin swords forming arcs and whistling as they cut through the air, and off to one side, a man vaulted up and over a wooden horse. Though she had no sense of smell, Livia imagined the large chamber reeked of sweat.

She hovered, unseen, beside Bram as he strode into the hall. Though the clothing and weapons differed from her own time, she recognized this place.

Men are always looking for an excuse to fight one another, she thought.

Because we’re good at it, Bram answered.

And not much else. It’s a marvel we women keep you around at all.

You like us between your thighs well enough.

She had no answer to that. Gods and goddesses, how she missed the pleasures of the flesh! So basic, so satisfying. The most essential element of life. She hadn’t felt a man’s touch for over a millennium. Was it any surprise that her thoughts kept straying toward the carnal, especially when Bram flaunted his delicious masculine form?

Easier to think of frustrated lust than the Dark One’s strengthening power. She had been pulled behind Bram as he rode toward this fighting school, weaving her way through the streets. Even in daylight hours, a combustible tension lay heavy over the city, a thick, choking net of malevolence revealed in mistrustful glances and broken windows.

“Good day, Lord Rothwell.” A red-faced man with close-cut hair stepped forward, a sword beneath his arm. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “It’s been a spell since last we’ve seen you.” He glanced past Bram, and for a moment, Livia thought the man might see her. But his gaze moved right through her. He was looking for someone. As though Bram usually arrived with company.

“Afternoon, Tranmere.” Bram’s voice was clipped. “I’m looking for a good, hard fight today.”

Tranmere made a tsking sound. “You an’ everyone else, my lord. Not so much practicing proper swordsmanship as it’s a battle royale. Been like this for weeks, but today’s especially fierce.”

Turning her attention back to the rows of men, she noted their bared teeth, their wild swings at one another. As if they were truly battling, driven forward by a need for blood and pain.

She knew who was responsible.

“Perfect,” said Bram. “Find me a partner.”

Tranmere bowed before hurrying off.

Why do you come to this place? she asked Bram. I would’ve thought you’d had enough of fighting.

Anger coursed through him. He still didn’t care for the fact that she’d experienced his memories.

Always need to be prepared, he answered.

Prepared for what?

Anything.

Tranmere trotted forward, a large man trailing behind him. He and Bram nodded to one another.

“Mr. Worton will be happy to spar with you, my lord. I believe his fighting style matches well with yours.”

“I don’t care for pretty forms and dainty foot positions,” Worton said. “Just a good, tough fight.” The sword he carried wasn’t as thin as those used by the other men, looking more like a weapon of war than a genteel sport.

“Then I’m your man.” Bram hefted his own sword, and it was equally brutal.

Without another word, Bram and Worton paced off toward an unoccupied portion of the chamber. Unseen, Livia drifted through the fencers as they leapt and attacked. Intriguing, how the techniques had changed over the millennia. Though Tranmere had bemoaned the lack of finesse the fighters showed today, they were still quite different from the soldiers and gladiators she’d seen practicing or in actual combat.

She’d always had a fondness for soldiers and gladiators. They made for very good company in bed. Their calloused hands, their uncomplicated need. Subtle and nuanced? No. But she seldom wanted subtlety in lovemaking. Had wanted. Never again would she feel the sweat of a lover’s body on her own skin, or the vibrations of their groans against her flesh.

She must stop thinking these tormenting thoughts. Yet it was difficult when surrounded by young, hale men in their prime, all gleaming with perspiration as they vigorously used their bodies.

The tie that bound her to Bram drew her through the chamber and close to where he and Worton stood. They each took a few practice swings through the air, loosening their muscles, until, satisfied, they faced one another. After a terse bow, they took up ready stances, swords upraised.

Worton swung. His blade only tapped Bram’s sword. Once, twice. Getting a sense of Bram’s readiness. Bram held his position, not allowing Worton to drive him back. Yet he wasn’t content to let his opponent do all the testing. He, too, took a handful of investigative swings, as though sounding the depths of a shore. The men held themselves loosely, but the casualness belied a tension even Livia could sense.

Bram and Worton circled one another. Their strikes grew harder, more direct. A swing, a block.

The tension suddenly broke as Worton lunged. Bram countered with quick, fluid motion. And then the fight truly began.

She had seen combat. In the gladiatorial ring. In a few skirmishes as she had journeyed from Rome to Britannia. Like any good Roman, she admired fine fighting skill, for it revealed not merely a strong body, but also a quick mind. She could claim no expertise in the techniques of armed battle, only knowing talent when she saw it.

Her gaze held fast to Bram. She could not look away even if the Dark One appeared right beside her. This—Bram in combat—this was beautiful.

Bram and Worton traded strikes. They circled, struck, lunged and darted back. Worton had the advantage of height and reach, yet Bram had speed and vicious accuracy. Their swords rang as they exchanged blows. A furious exchange.

She was rapt. This was not a genteel sparring exercise. These men seemed gripped by a need to hurt one another. They grunted as their padded jackets absorbed the sword point’s force—though the points were dulled, the strikes still would have wounded were it not for the jackets’ protection. Worton fought hard, relentlessly, yet he could not match Bram for ability.

In truth, Bram seemed made for this. He had a fluidity of motion that enthralled her. Each strike from Worton he blocked with the speed of a serpent, and his own attacks were brutally, savagely beguiling. She had seen him practice his combat, but with a true opponent, he transformed into another man. A man well-versed in the art of killing.

Had he been this adept, or did soldiering shape him into an expert fighter? Whatever the origin, it came to full fruition here. Men would gladly lose years off their lives if they could wield a blade with half of Bram’s ability.

Murmurs distracted her enough to pull her gaze away from Bram for a moment. The other swordsmen had stopped their practice in order to watch Bram and Worton fight, as though drawn by the force of Bram’s skill.

“A guinea says Rothwell takes it,” someone said.