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reasons for wanting to find the holy cup.
    She was saved from answering when her father’s voice called Chapel to his side. The man who was not a mister, not a priest, bowed to her and excused himself without a flicker of regret. Pru watched him go, not entirely certain of what had just happened. Her hands were no longer cold and she looked down to make certain they weren’t clenched or trembling.
    There was a mark on her right hand that hadn’t been there before. Her brows drew together as she raised it toward her face. A thin red mark about half an inch long dipped between her second and third knuckles. It was a scratch. Gingerly, she touched it with her other hand—it was fresh and it hadn’t been there before she met Chapel.
    Her head snapped up and her shocked gaze flew across the room to where the golden stranger stood, engaged in conversation with her father.
    Good Lord, had he actually bit her?

Chapter 3
    H e knew it was a mistake to come to Cornwall.
    Chapel sat on the edge of his pristinely made bed and stared out the window at the black night spread before him. He could wait no longer, sitting in this room, listening to the slow and steady heartbeats echoing around him, pounding in his head like tribal drums.
    The pint of pig’s blood he had consumed earlier sustained and strengthened him, but it had been like eating turnip when what one really craved was chocolate. Earlier, he’d had to step outside to clear the scent of human from his senses. But just when he thought it safe to go back inside, he’d met Prudence Ryland, who appealed not only to his hunger, but to other base appetites as well.
    Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Hearts beating in the darkness. Prudence’s was one of them. His own heart struggled to beat in response, but it was no use. It had been too long since the organ in his chest had kept such rhythm.
    He rose to his feet, clad in trousers and shirtsleeves. He could hardly sit there all night listening to the sounds of the house. Night was his time to thrive, the time when he felt the most vital and alive. He was restless and eager to burn some of the energy bubbling inside him.
    Silent as a cat—yet another benefit of his curse—he crept from his room and down the stairs through the house, his keen eyes helping avoid accident. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Mr. Ryland or that daughter of his.
    The thought of her gave him pause, right in the middle of the great hall, in a ray of moonlight that slipped through one of the many windows. Prudence. Could she have been named any less aptly? That one had the heavy scent of recklessness upon her. Even now, hours later, he could recall the scent of her as she fanned herself before him.
    Of course, he had tried to distance himself. Her rich red gown hugged every inch of her from shoulder to thigh in a manner that would have been most shameful in his day. She had a beautiful figure—a little thin, but curvaceous all the same. Her skin was so fair, her eyes so bright. It hadn’t helped that her thick auburn hair had looked ready to tumble out of her topknot and spill about her shoulders. Red hair. Red gown. Red lips. Her entire appearance taunted him.
    The sound of her voice saying his name had shaken him so acutely that he feared he had nicked her with a fang. Need flooded him at the taste of her flesh—not just the need to feed, but the need a man feels for a woman.
    One more reason why his stay in Cornwall should be a short one. For his kind, feeding and sex were closely linked and often went together as naturally as did eating and drinking for others.
    Why this woman aroused him was a mystery. Something in her scent, perhaps? The challenge in her feline eyes? There was something unusual about her, a deep melancholy that matched his own, but she was so very, very full of life and hope. Yes, hope clung to her like a veil, and that was what drew him to her.
    And as the thought of her filled him, so did her scent. At first he thought it might have