"Chérie, you are starting a flood." He took a moment to turn off the taps before he went to her. She did not move or blink. "Alexandra? What is it? Answer me."

She didn't react to his voice or his touch for a long moment, and then she came out of the trance as if it had never been.

"Why do you love me?" she asked. When Michael tried to embrace her, she stepped back out of his reach. "No. Don't touch me. Just tell me."

He tried to think of something gallant and romantic to say. "I love you because you are the other part of my soul."

"Don't give me pretty poetry." Her face set in remote, chilling lines. "Tell me, Michael."

"I am trying," he said slowly, his mind racing. "I love you because you are always in my head. I cannot go an hour without thinking of you. You have taken the place of my loneliness. I feel at peace only when you are with me." Her expression didn't change, and his uneasiness plummeted into fear. "Mon Dieu, Alexandra, why do you ask me this? You know my feelings for you. After all we have endured and fought through together, you cannot distrust me."

"I trust you," she said. "But why do you love me?"

She was toying with him now. "I have just told you."

"No, you didn't," she argued. "Why am I always in your head and your heart? Why can't you go an hour without thinking of me? Why don't you feel lonely anymore? Why does being with me give you peace?"

"There is no reason to it. Such things are beyond definition or explanation. There is only you, and me, and our love." He felt appalled. "You do not believe me. I can see it in your eyes."

"No. It's not that." She moved to sit on the edge of the tub and trailed her hand through the steaming water. "It's not you." She let out a long, shuddering breath, and raw emotion quickly filled the terrible blankness in her eyes. "I believe you. I love you. But something…" She looked up at him, bewildered now. "Why am I trying to pick a fight with you?" Her breath caught on a sob. "What's wrong with me?"

"It must be an effect of the separation. It will pass." Michael tucked his hand under her hair to cup her neck. "All we need is time together, chérie."

She jolted to her feet and hugged him. Against his chest she said, "If being away from you messes me up this bad, you'd better never let anyone kidnap me again."

Chapter 3

"Do you have to leave so soon?"

Robin of Locksley fastened the front of his doublet as he walked to the bed. The human female—what was her name?—lay still tucked between his sheets, her rumpled golden-brown locks forming a soft cloud around her drowsy face. As he stood over her, she breathed in and licked her lips. She had a mouth as full and soft as ripe fruit, and she smelled of the chocolate-covered strawberries he had fed to her.

She was as enchanting as her name… which was…

Amanda, Rob thought, groping for the memory of it. Or Miranda.

To hide his confusion, he bent to put his mouth to hers and kissed her sweet lips with leisurely enjoyment before he lifted his head. "I must, my lady." Out of habit he checked the spot under her ear where he had bitten her, but the small punctures had already begun to scab over. Tresori always seemed to heal more quickly than most humans. "Will you be here when I return?"

"I'd love to, but I'm starting my vacation tonight." She checked the slim gold watch still on her wrist and groaned. "My sister's flying in from California, and I've got to pick her up at the airport. She's here for the holidays."

He ran his knuckles along the gentle line of her jaw. "Her gain is my loss."

"Mine, too." She sat up, revealing the tattoo of a black cameo over her left breast. The cameo marked her as a tresora, a human trained from birth to serve the Kyn. Details of the cameo's center silhouette would be inked in once she made her oath of service to one Kyn lord; until then she was free to serve whom she pleased. "But who knows, maybe I can convince her to sleep off the jet lag."

It gratified him to see that, unlike other tresori, she was not completely resistant to his Kyn talent, which, along with l'attrait, allowed him to charm most humans in a matter of seconds.

"Until we meet again, then, my lovely one." Rob pressed his lips to the back of her hand before he picked up his cloak and left the chamber.

Vague guilt walked with him. He enjoyed human females, delighting in their smell and taste and relishing their response to him. He had certainly enjoyed the tresora he had just left. Taking her warm, willing body had not done much to exhaust him, but her presence next to him had allowed him a few precious hours of mindlessness. The small taste he had taken of her blood had been sweet and delicious. She had come as close to perfection as a human bed companion could be.

In light of all that, he should have at least remembered her name.

As Rob traveled down the corridor, he exchanged greetings with a few other early risers, all warriors dressed and outfitted for the last battle performance they would give before the Realm closed to human visitors for a month. The spacious rooms Byrne provided for visiting Kyn, located on the opposite side of the castle, provided more luxuries and comforts, but Rob felt more at ease among the men of the jardin. Unlike some of the Kyn nobility, the former Templars accepted his presence and treated him as one of their own. They also could not be charmed, as humans were, by his scent.

In truth, Robin of Locksley belonged to neither world. Long ago he had violated his Templar vows to save the human woman he had loved. Before it was over, that one choice had also cost him his family, titles, and lands, and had forced him to become a thief. The outrageous bounty put on his head had done the rest.

Robin had survived, gathering up human criminals and creating an outlaw kingdom in the forests. He trained his men in the ways of stealth and subterfuge, until they became such an accomplished band of thieves that no one and nothing had been safe from them. So his legend had grown over the centuries, until an exasperated Richard had sent an emissary to Sherwood. Not to offer amnesty—the high lord never forgave any crime unless he personally profited from it—but to inform Rob that he was being exiled yet again.

"High Lord Richard Tremayne orders you to leave England this day and never return," the courier had read from the scroll. "If you are ever found on English soil again, you and every human who serves you shall be executed."

Rob did not fear the prospect of his own death—he had been daring it to take him ever since he had lost everything he had ever loved—but he refused to permit his human followers to pay for his sins. His decision had been made for him, however, when Byrne sent a letter informing him that that he and his entire household were leaving Scotland for America. That had decided everything.

So Robin of Locksley had become Robin of America.

There had been Kyn aplenty in the colonies, but no formal jardin, and no lords to rule over them. Byrne had somehow intervened with the high lord on his behalf, for less than a month after his arrival Robin of Locksley was elevated from the shame of thieving outcast to the rank of suzerain over the Darkyn in Atlanta.

He would have made his oath to Byrne in Scotland, Rob thought as he walked out to the archer's range, had he not been considered less than vermin by Richard and his cronies. Now all was forgiven, or perhaps Richard had gotten a better understanding of what it was like to be treated like a leper.

He went to the deserted center range, which had been prepared for target practice with earthen butts adorned with circlets of various sizes and colors. Planks for wand shoots lined the edge of the south range, while hanging marks swayed over the north, which was used for clout shooting.

"Lord Locksley." Jayr came to stand beside him, her shadow stretching to match his. "Do you mean to shoot tonight?"

Byrne's seneschal had no idea how much pleasure the sight of her brought to him. He dared not look at her too long, for fear of showing it.

He lived for moments like this with her.

"Not for long," he promised as he tied his mane of black hair back with a lace. "Why are you dressed like that?"

The seneschal looked down at the immaculate white velvet doublet and matching breeches adorning her long body. Her nose wrinkled for a second before she said, "Terence, the boy who usually plays squire for the court processions, telephoned. He has the plague."

"The plague, or the plague?"

"Not the plague. Something called bronchitis. From the sound of his hacking and wheezing, a very serious case." She eyed her finery again, this time with some resignation. "He offered to come in, but I would rather he not infect the other humans. I will take his place tonight."

Guilt returned, this time a barrel of it.

"Indeed. But squires never wore white to court." Rob glanced down. "Or white with black work boots. Don't you remember the old fashions?" He wagged a finger at her. "And you claim your performances are so historically accurate. That is false advertising and misrepresentation."

She leaned forward and whispered, "If you say nothing, my lord, I daresay the humans will never know the difference."

How easily she made him laugh. "Speaking of our mortal friends, would you tell me the name of that very generous and lovely female who entertained me last night?"

"Cassandra Cooper."

"Damn me." He ran his thumb across his fingertips. "I could not recall it when I left her, and came very near to calling her Miranda."

Jayr shrugged. "She would not have taken offense. She comes from an old tresoran family, and understands how we are."

"How I am, you mean." He went to the equipment locker where he had stowed his equipment. "You, at least, remember their names."

From the locker Rob took out the carryall bag he had brought from Atlanta and opened it. He strapped his quiver to his belt in Norman fashion and buckled a bracer to his forearm before taking out his longbow.

Made by his own hands from a single length of Spanish yew, the stave stretched six feet from end to end, exactly the same height as Robin of Locksley himself. Reviled for centuries as an ignoble and un-Christian device, the longbow had been the decisive weapon that had turned the tide of many great battles during Robin's human life. William the Conqueror may have brought every bastard son of France with him when he invaded England, but it had taken only a single arrow from an anonymous archer's bow to slay King Harold at Hastings.