His eyes narrowed slightly at my tone, and I cringed inwardly. I was tired and not guarding my voice as well as I should. I'd probably just told him a lot more than I'd intended.

"By luck and some timely help," he said after a pause. "My clothes, other than the filthy ones I had on, money and possessions were in Tirgoviste—where many of those who had just tried to kill me resided. I had to risk going back there, and as luck would have it, I was seen by one of my attackers. He didn't realize how weak I was and did not dare to take me on himself. But he ran to summon the others."

"But if they'd just buried you, why did they believe him?" Most people would ask anyone who came bearing tales of the walking dead if maybe he'd been drinking a little too much.

Before answering, Mircea came to join me. Since I was still sitting by the hearth, far too near the fire's random sparks for a vampire's liking, the move worried me. So did the casual smile on his face. "Spoken like a true modern woman," he said lightly. "But at that time, many people accepted the old legends about nosferatu as fact. And they knew how to deal with any of us who dared to show our face."

He sat down and relaxed, digging his bare toes into the deep, rich carpeting, and his eyes fixed on the hem of my gown. I looked down only to realize that the dirty ends of Pritkin's boots were peeking out from under the silk. I'd forgotten I was wearing them, just like he'd forgotten to search them. I felt myself blushing at the memory of exactly why we'd been so distracted.

I tried to tuck my feet back under the material, but it didn't do any good. Mircea knelt in front of me and pulled my foot into his hands, staring at the dirty, clunky boot incredulously. "Where did you get this?"

"Um." It was about a size ten, and obviously a man's. Mircea scraped at a bit of mud coating the heel and a knife popped out. It fell to the floor, making a small ringing sound, and we both stared at it for a beat.

"You're wearing the mage's shoes?"

"Technically, they're boots."

Mircea's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I can see that. Why are you wearing them?"

"My feet were cold."

"And he made a gentlemanly gesture?" His tone dripped sarcasm.

"Not exactly."

"You stole his shoes." Mircea sounded like he didn't quite believe it.

"Boots. And I didn't exactly…I mean, he wasn't using them at the time."

"And why not?"

"Um."

Mircea pulled the other offending boot off and tossed the pair of them to the other side of the room. They landed with a crash against the heavy wood paneling, sending a shower of caked dirt scattering across the floor. Which left him staring at Pritkin's socks.

They were woven from a coarse gray wool that in no way matched my dress and, like the boots, were oversized. Mircea didn't comment this time, just yanked them off and threw them after the shoes. "My feet are going to get cold," I protested.

"I will find you something more appropriate," he informed me tightly, pulling my feet into his lap.

He hadn't yet buttoned the shirt, and when he moved, the firelight did amazing things to the muscles on his chest. He started rubbing my arches, just too hard to tickle, and it felt so good I had to look away. It was a mistake, letting him know he was getting to me, but it was either that or get up and move—an even bigger red flag.

"How did you get out of there?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Out of where?"

"The town."

"With Horatiu's help," he said, rubbing my instep with hot, firm strokes. He had incredible hands—long, slim and skilled—and the warmth of his touch through the filter of my silk stocking was more than a little disconcerting.

"I take it he was younger then?"

"By quite a few years. The family's hold on the throne had never been completely secure, and we had been trained from childhood to be ready to flee at a moment's notice. Horatiu retrieved my emergency funds, some clothes and a horse, and hid me until nightfall. I was getting ready to go when he rode up, insisting on coming with me as far as the border. I tried to dissuade him, but he was as hardheaded as ever. And fortunately so. I wouldn't have made it alone, not in those first few months. Even with his help, there were some very close calls."

I caught his hand, needing to break contact in order to think. "Is there anything you'd do differently?"

Mircea let his hand lie still in mine, although the other kept hold of my leg, those long fingers curled around my ankle. "At the time, I believed that I was doing the only thing I could. I was leaving until they stopped searching for me, until I grew strong enough to defend myself and the political winds changed once again. But I departed too quickly, with too much left undone. Some of my mistakes I rectified later, but others…could not be redeemed."

That might have been true, but it wasn't what I needed to hear. "If you were going to give the old you some advice, what would it be?"

Mircea was silent for a long moment. "That when you become something more, you must often give up something to claim it."

"That doesn't sound very helpful!"

"Perhaps not, but there are no hard and fast rules in survival. I did what we all do when faced with something we believe beyond our abilities."

"And what's that?"

"The best I could."

"And when that wasn't good enough?" I whispered, finally admitting what I'd been trying not to think about. That I wasn't good enough. That the former Pythia had said it herself, in what I was beginning to think had been a prophecy: that I'd be either the best of us or the very worst. I had no idea what that first part meant, but I could really see the latter as a possibility.

"I found help."

"Such as?"

"The family," he said simply. "They stood behind me. Gave me something to fight for besides my own survival. Helped me believe that we would triumph, even when I sometimes doubted it myself."

"The family," I repeated dully. The very thing I didn't have.

"Not the one of my birth. It was shattered, first by Father's death and later by Vlad's betrayal. But in time, I built a new one. I had Horatiu, then Radu and, eventually, others."

Great advice—for another vampire. But I couldn't just go out and make a family for myself. And every one I'd ever had had disappeared through murder or betrayal or bad luck.

"Well, some of us don't have a family to fall back on," I said bitterly.

"You have a family, dulceata?" he told me, pulling me close. He moved slowly, giving me time to protest, to move away. When I didn't, one hand circled my waist, the other cupping the back of my neck, his touch careful but sure. "You've always had one."

"The family is loyal to you, not to me."

"But as I am loyal to you, it amounts to the same thing."

"Are you?" I searched his face. It was beautiful, flames dancing in those dark eyes, shining on his hair. And as usual it told me exactly nothing. "I'm a seer, not a telepath, Mircea. I'm not even as good as a vamp at telling when someone is lying."

"What do you feel?" He was breathing softly through his mouth and I felt it on my lips, warm and heavy. For a second, the memory of his mouth was so vivid I wasn't sure we weren't kissing right now. It was all too easy to imagine loving Mircea. It was even easier to imagine the problems it could cause.

"The last things I can trust are my feelings!" I told him unsteadily. "Especially for you!"

"Ah, dulceata?" he murmured. "You will learn as I did: family are the only ones you can trust."

He took my face in his hands and smiled against my lips, and when I felt it, I couldn't help smiling, too. I could feel his chuckle where my hand rested against his chest, and the thud of his heart picking up speed. I clung to him, my hands finding warm skin under his shirt, spreading across his back.