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The man moved forward, grabbing her wrist. His scowl deepened until veins stood out along his jaw.

“You cannot escape me now,” he threatened, fingers tightening until pain shot through her wrist. “You are my wife, and you will learn your place before you…!”

His words abruptly stopped. But not just his words. It was as though all of him had frozen.

His furious expression flattened, his grip loosened, and his body stiffened. Then, before Marina could understand what was happening, the viscount collapsed.

Someone screamed. Marina blinked once, wondering what had just happened. She could not move nor could she breathe. Her dazed mind took in the lifeless figure.

The flowers slipped from her hands and scattered beside the body of the man who had been her husband for less than a minute.

Another scream echoed before the chapel erupted into chaos. The guests left their seats, rushing forward. Someone shouted for a physician, another voice cried for the servants, and only the bride remained rooted to the spot.

He was dead. Her husband was dead. And she had been the last person standing beside him, the last person he had spoken to. Everything else blurred around her.

The world slipped out of focus, and she knew she would faint a moment before she did.

The last thing she heard before darkness claimed her was the shrill voice of an older woman. “That woman! She did it! She is a witch!”

One

Ambrose turned the knob of his bedchamber door, stepped inside, and the sun assaulted him. It was an ambush, as he had not expected it. Most certainly not from within the safety of his own bedchamber.

He raised one hand in front of his face and stepped back into the sanctuary of the dark hall. Then he peered inside and saw the cause of the trouble.

The curtains were open. For years, the enormous velvet covering had remained sealed, shutting the outside world where it belonged. But now, one of them had been drawn open, allowing daylight to invade his chamber.

He spotted a blond-haired footman in front of the open window, a silver candle holder raised over his head. Ambrose frowned, then realized the full extent of the commotion. The footman meant to finish off a bird. The large cardinal sat on the windowsill and pecked at the glass, as if to taunt the man.

“Wretched creature. Get away!” the young man called and raised the candleholder like a weapon.

Before Ambrose could decide what to do, hurried footsteps approached from behind.

“I shall attend to it, Your Grace,” Ernest, his long-serving butler, declared with urgency, already moving forward.

“Do not. I will take care of it.”

Ernest obeyed, as he always did.

Only then did Ambrose take a step forward, despite the sun flashing at him. He made his way toward the young man, though his skin already burned.

Once, he would have feared it. Once, he would have begged for darkness. But now, he simply loathed it. And the man who had brought it.

He moved deeper into the room, his boot striking the polished floor. At six feet four, his shoulders nearly brushed the carved bedposts as he crossed toward the curtain. Then he stopped right behind the man, who remained unaware of him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ambrose demanded.

The footman froze. Then, he turned and the instant his eyes met Ambrose’s face, fear overtook him. The candle holder slipped from his grip with a clang.

The footman stumbled backward as a frightened scream tore from his throat.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he begged, dropping to his knees at once. “I can explain!”

Ambrose’s jaw tightened. He did not need an explanation. Not for the man’s actions, nor for his reaction.

He knew that response, and had seen it too many times. The young man’s eyes kept darting toward his face and then away again, unable to make contact for more than a heartbeat. The sunlight was burning his flesh, and he could feel the transformation upon his face.

It took only minutes before an angry red, raised rash covered the skin where the sun had touched. He looked as though he had walked through a fire.