Chapter 2

Mikhail jerked awake, the memory from half a millennium ago still lingering in his mind, the taste of Elizabeth's kiss still on his lips and her mocking smile still burned into his memory. But it wasn't 1559 anymore. Half a millennium had passed between that fateful kiss and the solitary life he led in Cornwall now.

He sat up, eyes adjusting to the lack of moonlight, his thoughts still back at the moment his life had changed foreverwhen the woman he'd thought he loved had drugged his wine, stolen his hoard, and then imprisoned him behind iron bars, the one metal that could harm a dragon and which he had no power over, for half a century. The woman had taken everything that mattered to him, and centuries later, it still stung to realize the extent of his gullibility.

Eyes sharpening in the darkness, his dragon senses assessed the night. A faint patter of rain against the bay windows drew his attention. The dragon inside him shifted, wanting to manifest itself and take flight. Over the years the beast in him had become almost feral, carrying with it a desire to fly in dangerous conditions.

Elizabeth's betrayal had dug deep into him, like claws raking old wounds open again and again. He had wanted her for his mate, she had been the one fate had chosen for him, yet she hadn't believed true mating was real, not until she was on her death bed, and by then it was far too late.

I was nothing but an unholy beast to her except in those final hours of her life. She saw me only as a means to take back those jewels to line her royal coffers.

Being rejected by her had nearly killed him. A dragon couldn't live without its mate. And while he hadn't completed the mating bond, his dragon had been driven half-mad with grief by losing her. Even now, five hundred years later, thinking of her made his dragon reckless, desperate to hurt itself because it didn't care to live, not without its mate. He could feel it stir inside him, wanting to plunge off the cliffs and test its wings against the lightning and the rain.

Soon, he promised. Soon.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood. The stone floor was cool beneath his feet. He was surprised that it wasn't snowing outside. This time of year on the coast of Cornwall there should be a great, fierce storm raging against the shore, layering the rocky inland hills with wet, sticky snow.

It was not the kind of snow he was used to, however, even after living here for five centuries. He preferred his snow thick and fluffy, dry as vodka. Russian snow. The snow of his homeland. But that was lost to him. He could not go home until he recovered the jewels Queen Elizabeth had stolen from him. It was a matter of honor.

Mikhail left his bedchamber and walked down the narrow hall of his home. It was a stone country house, a mere mile from the cliffs. The secluded spot left him isolated, just as he liked it. It was dangerous to navigate the roads around the coast this time of year, and the self-imposed isolation left him melancholy, but he welcomed the dark tide of feelings.

He hadn't always been this way, the kind of man who preferred solitude to companionship. But he'd been burned too often by the friendship of mortals to fully trust them ever again, and he'd never felt at home among the English dragon families, except perhaps for the Belishaws. He was content to be an outsiderforever.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, listening to the old grandfather clock ticking away the hours. Two in the morning. Outside, the sea pounded against the cliffs, the sound reminding Mikhail of how alone and remote his country house was. The frothy white spray from the water struck the rocks and formed a thick, almost impenetrable mist that had lured many a ship to a watery grave. In many ways, Cornwall was like the edge of hella dark, harsh place, especially in winter, and yet somehow that made it beautiful as well. A place of endings, a place of darkness and loneliness that called to his wounded soul.

His eyes strayed to an oil painting by the stairs, one of the dark cliffs with the distant black figure of a dragon flying out to sea. The house was full of memories and the ghost of his friend James Barrow, the one human he had trusted. But James had died long ago, more than a hundred and fifty years now.

"Mikhail, stop brooding." James's laughter echoed through the hall, a flash of memory that made him smile. If there was anyone aside from his brothers who had understood him, it had been James. The human had been a friend to him when he'd needed it most, a brother when he had become brotherless. Their bond had run deep in a time when Mikhail had felt most alone because of his exile. When James had died, he'd left Mikhail the house, as well as all of the ghosts and memories that came with it.

Mikhail had no urge to return to bed, lest dark dreams come creeping back up on him. With that unpleasant thought, he headed for the living room. He collapsed onto the leather sofa and flicked on the television, flipping through the absurd number of channels before a news story made his body freeze.

He turned the sound up to listen to a breaking news report from London. A reporter spoke in front of the entrance to the Victoria and Albert Museum.

"We officially confirmed last night's immense discovery," the man said, excitement flustering his face. "Workmen installing a new wine cellar in the basement of a small bed-and-breakfast in Cheapside unearthed what turned out to be the remnants of a far older building. Tests confirm that the edifice was likely built around the middle of the sixteenth century."

He paused, catching his breath before continuing. "But the most amazing part of this discovery is the large pile of jewels that were uncovered in the remains of the old building beneath the inn. More than two hundred pounds of raw gems and finished settings, believed to have been from the Elizabethan era, have been transported to the Victoria and Albert Museum. Over the next two weeks, the items will be cataloged and transferred to the Thorne Auction House."

The female news anchor interrupted. "And I understand that this find is unusual for another reason?"

"That is correct. Because the finding is strictly made up of gemstones, they do not fall under the Treasure Act of 1996 and are therefore not required to be sold to a museum. As such, they remain the property of the bed-and-breakfast owners, a Mr. and Mrs. Elwes-Bush. The Victoria and Albert Museum representatives will be among the bidders at the auction, of course."

The TV cut away from the reporter to show photos of the jewels. Among the pearls and rubies, he caught a glimpse of a gemstone emerald watch made from a single large emerald, cut into a square box shape, with delicate gold roman numerals inside. A string of wild thoughts raced through him as he recognized what he saw.

My hoard

Mikhail could barely breathe. The jewels, his jewels, were at the Victoria and Albert Museum. He knew those gems, had gazed at them for hours, burning their vivid colors into his mind so he would never forget. He'd spent five centuries trying to find them again, searching all of England for them, and they'd been hidden away somewhere in Cheapside.

She'd never put them back in the royal treasury, possibly because she knew he'd look for them. When he'd finally emerged from his prison, he'd sought word on their last location. What he'd discovered was that the hoard of jewels had been stolen while being transported from the Tower of London to one of Elizabeth's residences. The robbers were never caught, and the treasure was lost forever.

The listless melancholy that had colored the last five hundred years of his life faded. The jewels were in London. He was going to get them back, and he would finally be able to go home.

A slow smile curved his lips. This time, there would be no tempting virgin to stand in his way.